Rundle touched his hat. A big and fearsome-looking man was Rundle. Village mothers frightened small children into good behaviour by threatening them that Rundle would come and take them away—a name to conjure with. Little Langbourne only knew peace and felt secure when Rundle was undergoing one of his temporary retirements from activity, when, as a guest of the State, he cursed his luck and the gamekeepers who had been one too many for him.
But there was nothing fearsome about the Rundle who faced little Ellice Brand. There was a smile on the man’s lips, in his eyes a look of intense gratitude.
Ragged and disreputable person that he was, he would have lain down and allowed this little lady to wipe her feet on him, did she wish it.
“How is Snatcher?”
“Fine, missy!” he said. “Fine—fine!” His eyes glistened. “Snatcher’s going to pull through, missy. ’Twas a car did hit he,” he added, “and I saw the chap who was in it. I saw him, and I saw him laugh when Snatcher went rolling over in the dust. I’ll watch out for that man, missy.”
“Tell me about Snatcher!”
“Leg broke, and a terrible cut from a great flint; but he’ll pull through—thanks to you!”
“To Mr. Vinston, you mean!”
Rundle shook his head. “To you. He wouldn’t ’a come for me, nor Snatcher; he hates my poor tyke. But he’s put Snatcher right for all that, and because you made him do it, and I don’t wonder!” Rundle looked at her. “I don’t wonder,” he added. “There’s be few men who wouldn’t do what you’d tell ’em to.”
“Now,” said Ellice, “you are talking absurdly. Of course I just shamed Mr. Vinston into doing it. I’d like to come and see Snatcher, Rundle.”