“There!” he exclaimed, turning to the overseer triumphantly, “What did I say? Here’s the first boy I meet, fresh from the lye-tub, and he reads it straight off without a blunder, and better than you could have read it yourself. Here, boy, read that.”
He took a letter from his pocket, written in a terribly puzzling hand, and placed it before me.
I took it, hesitated for a moment, and then began:
“‘My dear sir,—I have given the most careful consideration to your proposal, and I am quite willing to—to—to—to—’ If you please, sir, I’m very sorry,” I stammered, “but I can’t make out that word.”
“No, boy, nor I neither. I don’t believe the writer can. There, go and wash those dirty hands,” he continued, snatching the letter from me.
“No: stop!” cried Mr Grimstone wrathfully; “I want that boy here.”
“Then you may take your great clever noodle, Jem Smith,” said the little man.
“Mr Rowle, I will not have my rules and regulations broken in this way, sir.”
“Hang you and your rules,” said the little man. “Have a pinch? No? Then let it alone.”
“I cannot and will not spare that boy,” cried Mr Grimstone, motioning away the snuff-box.