“He’s a friend of mine. Now, shake your shambles! I want to go up to Huggate’s barn!”
“He ain’t come to take you away?” Ben cried, with swift suspicion.
“No, no!” the Captain said, pushing him through the door. “He’s come to supper with us!”
“Yes, but I don’t think I have!” protested Mr. Babbacombe, who had been regarding his friend’s protégé with disfavour. “And if you think I mean to spend the evening here with that horrid brat—why, I’d as lief spend it with a Portuguese muleteer!”
“Nonsense! He’s quite a good lad. Did you never fall out of a tree yourself, and go home with a torn shirt, and dirt all over you? Besides, the poor little devil’s been orphaned!”
“What are you going to do with him?” demanded Mr. Babbacombe, looking at him with misgiving.
“Damned if I know!” confessed John. “I’m bound to look after him, of course. Might hand him to Cocking to train: he’s got a way with horses, and will make a splendid groom when he’s older.”
“I should think Cocking will enjoy that!” said Mr. Babbacombe sardonically.
But when Ben reappeared presently with a well-scrubbed face, and in his other shirt, he admitted that he was not so repulsive an urchin as at first sight he had thought him. Encouraged by this moderate praise, the Captain informed Ben that if Joseph Lydd did not come to the toll-house that evening, Mr. Babbacombe would stay to keep him company while he himself went out for an hour. Ben looked dubious, but the Captain said: “And he’s a soldier, too, so you needn’t be afraid he would let anyone carry you off! If anyone tried to, he would draw his pistol, and shoot him!”
“No, I dashed well would not!” said Mr. Babbacombe. “What’s more, I won’t be dragged into this business!”