“You don’t happen to be manager of a motor-works, I suppose?”
“No,” said the boy, unconscious of the genial sarcasm.
“Where d’you live?”
“In the village yonder,” said Tom, pointing ahead.
“Oh! Ah! Look here, my lad, why aren’t you at school?”
“Why, ‘cos ’tis holidays,” he replied with a grin. “Feyther didn’t want me, so I came out to fish.”
“Oh, indeed. And who’s your father?”
“He be the smith you wanted me to fetch; but there warn’t no need.”
“So it appears! I say, my lad, how old are you?”
“Twelve, and I’m in the sixth standard.”