“Very well—sword-play,” said Roy, pettishly; “so long as I do not neglect any studies I have to go through with Master Pawson.”
“And I s’pose you’ve been a-neglecting of ’em, sir, eh?” said the old man, drily.
“That I’ve not. Perhaps I have not got on so well as I ought, but that’s because I’m stupid, I suppose.”
“Nay, nay, nay! That won’t do, Master Roy. There’s lots o’ things I can do as you can’t; but that’s because you’ve never learnt.”
“Master Pawson’s cross because I don’t do what he wants.”
“Why, what does he want you to do, sir?”
“Learn to play the big fiddle.”
“What!” cried the man, indignantly. “Then don’t you do it, my lad.”
“I don’t mean to,” said Roy; “and I don’t want to hurt my mother’s feelings; and so I won’t make a lot of show over learning sword-play with you, but I shall go on with it, Ben, and you shall take the swords or sticks down in the hollow in the wood, and I’ll meet you there every morning at six.”
“Mean it, sir?”