“Yes, Jem, they all think I’m a thief. Everybody does,” cried Don, passionately.
“No, everybody don’t,” said Jem, fiercely; “so don’t talk like that, Mas’ Don. Why, even I couldn’t ha’ stole that money—me, as is only yard-man, and nothing o’ no consequence t’other day. So if I couldn’t ha’ done it, I’m quite sure as you, as is a young gentleman born and bred, couldn’t.”
“But they think I did. Everybody thinks so.”
“Tell yer everybody don’t think so,” cried Jem, sharply. “I don’t, and as for them, they’ve all got dust in their eyes, that’s what’s the matter with them, and they can’t see clear. But didn’t you tell ’em as you didn’t?”
“Yes, Jem,” said Don, despondently; “at first.”
“Then why didn’t you at last, too? Here, cheer up, my lad; it’ll all blow over and be forgotten, same as the row was about that sugar-hogshead as I let them take away. I don’t say shake hands ’cause you’re like master and me only man, but I shakes hands with you in my ’art, my lad, and I says, don’t be down over it.”
“You couldn’t shake hands with a thief, you mean, Jem,” said Don, bitterly.
“Look here, Mas’ Don, I can’t punch your head because, as aforesaid, you’re young master, and I’m only man; but for that there same what you said just now I hits you in my ’art. Thief indeed! But ah, my lad, it was a pity as you ever let Mike come into the office to tell you his lies about furren parts.”
“Yes, Jem, it was.”
“When you might ha’ got all he told you out o’ books, and the stories wouldn’t ha’ been quite so black.”