“Please, Mr Rowle, I’m so unhappy here, that I was going to run away.”
He caught me by the collar so sharply that I thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder.
“I’m glad of it, young un. Run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you.”
“Then you don’t think it would be very wrong, sir?”
“I think it would be very right, young un; and I hope if you find your uncle, he won’t send you back. If he wants to, don’t come: but run away again. Look here; you’ll want a friend in London. Go and see my brother.”
“Your brother, sir?”
“Yes, my brother Jabez. You’ll know him as soon as you see him; he’s just like me. How old do you think I am?”
“I should think you’re fifty, sir.”
“Fifty-eight, young un; and so’s Jabez. There, you go and put his name and address down. Fifty-eight he is, and I’m fifty-eight, so there’s a pair of us. Now, then, write away: Mr Jabez Rowle, Ruddle and Lister.”
“Mr Jabez Rowle,” I said, writing it carefully down, “Good. Now Ruddle and Lister.”