“That you don’t,” he said, dropping his fierce way and sinking back smiling. “’Struth, what a boy you are!”
I gazed at him in a troubled way, for I felt hurt.
“I’m very sorry, Mr Revitts,” I said, “and I hope you don’t think I would do anything to deceive you,” for that “R or F” puzzled me.
“Deceive me? Not you, my boy. Why, you couldn’t deceive a sparrer or a hoyster. Why, you’re as transparent as a pane of glass. I can see right through you and out on the other side.”
“I’m afraid I am very stupid, sir,” I said sadly. “I’ll try to learn to be more clever. I don’t know much, only about books, and natural history, and botany, but I’ll try very hard not—not to be so—so—green.”
“Why, bless your young heart, where have you been all your life? You’re either as cunning as—No, you ain’t, you really are as innocent as a lamb.”
“I’ve always been at home with papa and mamma, sir.”
“Sir, be hanged! My name’s William Revitts; and if you and me’s going to be good friends, my boy, you’ll drop that sir-ing and mistering, and call me plain Bill.”
“Should you like it, sir, if I did?” I asked anxiously.
“No, sir, I shouldn’t. Yes, I should. Now then, is it to be friends or enemies?”