“Oh, no,” he said at last. “It would be a game, but,”—he began to rub himself gently with both hands—“the very thought of it makes me feel as if my ribs were sore. He was such a weight.”
“Yes, we mustn’t play any more tricks; he’s such a good chap. But about old Boil O—I don’t like his turning so queer. He went on at me like a madman—I felt half frightened—said all sorts of things.”
“What sort of things?”
“Oh, that father imposed upon him because he was a poor man, and set him to do all kinds of dirty jobs about the place because he was willing. Said he’d repent it some day. When you know father picks out those jobs for him because he’s such a clever old chap and does the things better than the clumsy workmen from the town. But as for imposing upon him,” said the boy, proudly, “father would not impose upon anybody.”
“No, that he wouldn’t. My father says he’s the most noble-hearted, generous man he ever knew; he’s always ready to put his hand in his pocket for the poor.”
“So he is,” cried Will. “Impose! Why, do you know what he pays old Boil O every week?”
“No.”
“Then I shan’t tell you, because that’s all private; but just twice as much as he pays any of the other men.”
“And he has that cottage rent-free, hasn’t he?”
“Yes, and Mrs Drinkwater makes a lot every year by letting her rooms to the artists who come down. She charges just what she likes, and the people are glad to pay it, because it’s such a nice place, and Mrs Waters makes them so comfortable. Why, look at old Bad Manners—this is the third year he’s been down to stay a couple of months. Now what has old Boil O got to grumble about.”