My father had no sooner done speaking than my mother shook her head at me, and I went and stood out in the yard, leaning my back up against one of the great tallow hogsheads, and thought.
It only took me five minutes to make up my mind, for the simple reason that it was already seven-eighths on the way, this not being the first time by many a score that my father had given me his opinion respecting my future prospects in life; and as I neared twenty such opinions used to seem to grit in amongst my mental works, while the longer I lived the more I thought that I should never get my livelihood by soap-boiling.
Well, my mind was made up most stubbornly that I would go out to Uncle Reuben.
Just then, as I stood moodily there, I heard the sound of a scuffle and a sharp smack, and directly after, one of our lads, a young fellow of my own age Tom Bulk by name, came hurriedly out of the kitchen door, rubbing the side of his red face, but only to drop his hand the moment he caught sight of me leaning against the tallow-tub.
“What’s the matter, Tom?” I said, though I knew well enough that Tom was in hot water.
“Got a flea in my ear, Mas’r Harry,” he said, with a grin of vexation. “I caught it in the kitchen.”
“So have I, Tom,” I said bitterly; “but I caught mine in the parlour.”
“Mas’r been rowing you agen, sir?”
“Yes, Tom,” I said drearily, “and it’s for the last time. If I’m no good I may as well be off. I can’t take to our business.”
“Well, tain’t so sweet as it used to be, sir; and it don’t seem right that, to make other folks clean, we should allers be in a greasy mess. But what are you going to do, Mas’r Harry?” he said anxiously.