“Well, that seems to come easy enough to most people,” he said.
“But I am telling the truth, sir,” I said. “Write down to Rowford, and ask Mary if I’m not telling the truth.”
“Truth! Oh, I know that, my boy,” he said kindly. “Here, give’s your hand. Come along.”
“But you won’t send me back, sir?”
“Send you back? Not I, boy. He’s a blackguard, that Blakeford. I know him, and I only wish he’d do something, and I had him to take up for it. Mary’s told me all about him, and if ever we meets, even if it’s five pounds or a month, I’ll punch his head: that’s what I’ll do for him. Do yer hear?”
“Yes, sir,” I said.
“Now, what’s to be done with you?”
I shook my head and looked at him helplessly.
He stood looking at me for a few moments and then went into another room, where there was a policeman sitting at a desk, like a clerk, with a big book before him. I could see him through the other doorway, and they talked for a few minutes; and then Mr Revitts came back, and stood staring at me.
“P’r’aps I’m a fool,” he muttered. “P’r’aps I ain’t. Anyhow, I’ll do it. Look here, youngster, I’m going to trust you, though as you’ve absconded I ought to take you before a magistrate or the inspector, but I won’t, as you’re a friend of my Mary.”