“Well, young un,” he said, “why, you’re growing quite a man. But what’s the matter with your forehead?”
I told him, and he gave a low, long whistle.
“I say, young un,” he said, “I dare say it ain’t no business of mine, but if I was you, I should look after another place. Perhaps, though, he wouldn’t let you go.”
“Mr Blakeford often says, Mr Rowle, that he wishes I was out of his sight.”
“Gammon!” said my visitor; “don’t you believe him. You do as you like; but if I was a boy like you, I wouldn’t stay here.”
I looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts.
“Why, what’s wrong?” he said; “you look as red as a turkey cock!”
“Please, Mr Rowle—but you won’t tell Mr Blakeford?”
“Tell Mr Blakeford? Not I.”
“I mean to go up to London, and try and find my uncle.”