I found—Mary being my informant—that there was to be quite a serious case made of it, and Mrs Blakeford had told her that I was to be an important witness to the assault.
A fortnight had passed; and as I sat alone day after day in the office thinking of a plan that had suggested itself to my mind, but fearing to put it into execution, I had two visitors who completely altered my career in life.
The first came one morning as I was writing a letter to my uncle—a letter destined never to reach him—in the shape of the big farmer, Mr Wooster, who rapped sharply at the office door, and gazed sternly at me as I opened it and stood in the little passage.
“Where’s Blakeford?” he said sharply.
“Ill in bed, sir,” I said.
“It’s a lie, you young rascal,” he cried, catching me by the collar. “Here, how old are you?”
“Thirteen, sir.”
“And you can tell lies like that, eh? and without blushing?”
“It is not a lie, sir,” I said stoutly. “Mr Blakeford hasn’t been down since—since—”
“I thrashed him, eh?” he said, laughing. “It was a good thrashing too, eh, youngster? But, hallo! what’s the matter with your head?”