“Hullo! hullo!” he cried, “so here we are.”
There he was without doubt—a big, red, jolly face, like a full moon orient, a loose merino jacket, no waistcoat or necktie, but a cricketer’s cap on the very back of his bushy head. He struck Archie a friendly slap on the back.
“Keep on yer cap,” he shouted, “I was once a poor man myself.”
Archie was too surprised and indignant to speak.
“Well, well, well,” said Mr Winslow, “they do tell me wonders won’t never cease. What a whirligig of a world it is. One day I’m cleanin’ a gent’s boots. Gent is a capting of a ship. Next day gent’s nephew comes to me to beg for a job. Say, young man, what’ll ye drink?”
“I didn’t come to drink, Mr Winslow, neither did I come to beg.”
“Whew-ew-ew,” whistled the quondam steward, “here’s pride; here’s a touch o’ the old country. Why, young un, I might have made you my under-gardener.”
The girl at this moment entered the room. She had heard the last sentence.
“Papa!” she remonstrated. Then she glided out by the casement window.
Burning blushes suffused Archie’s cheeks as he hurried over the lawn soon after; angry tears were in his eyes. His hand was on the gate-latch when he felt a light touch on his arm. It was the girl.