“Look at my face, Sir Thomas. My arm is terribly strained.”
“Um—yes, but it does not sound reasonable to me, as an old man of the world who has had much to do with boys.”
“I have stated my case, Sir Thomas,” said Mr Dempster in an ill-used tone.
“Are you sure that you did not use the cane first yourself?”
“I—I will not swear I did not, Sir Thomas. I was very angry.”
“Hah! yes,” said the old gentleman, nodding his head. “Now, boy, speak the truth. This is a very serious business; what have you to say?”
“Got hold of me, sir, and was going to hit me, and we wrestled, and the hat was knocked over, and the stick, and he trod on his ’at, sir, and I sings out to Mayne Gordon—this is him, sir—to take the stick away, but he got it, sir, and I calls out to Gordon not to let him thrash me.”
“Gently, gently,” cried the old gentleman, holding up his hands, for Esau’s words came pouring out in a breathless way, and every one was laughing.
“No, sir, not a bit gently; ’ard, sir, awful! and I can show the marks, and Gordon—that’s him, sir—says he’d no business to ’it his mate, and he ’it him, and then Gordon got hold of the cane and held on, and Mr Dempster, he got it away again, and cut him across the ear, sir, and it bled pints, and ’it him again, and then I went at him and held him, and Gordon got the cane away and ’it ’im, sir, and then we ran away, and the police took us and locked us up, and that’s all.”
“And enough too,” said Sir Thomas good-humouredly. “There, hold your tongue.—Now, you, sir, what have you to say?—the same as your companion?”