“I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said stoutly.
“Look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that’s all I want; if you don’t, you’ll ruin me.”
“I’m sure I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said, colouring up and speaking earnestly.
“You’ll tell the magistrates, then, that I snatched up the poker and beat Mr Blakeford with that, eh?”
“No, sir, it was your walking-stick.”
“Was it anything like that?” he said, holding out the one he carried.
“Yes, sir, just like it. Here are the pieces, sir,” I said; and I took them out of my desk, where I had placed them.
“You’re a brave boy,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “so they are. Now look here, my boy: Mr Blakeford says I assaulted him with the poker. Just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket—no, give them to me; I’ll take them. Now; when the day comes, and I ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. There’s half-a-crown for you. What, you won’t take it! Well, just as you like. Good-bye!”
He shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office.
He had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, I admitted Mr Rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head.