“Cheer up!” said Martin, noticing his timorousness. “We’ll soon be home, and I’m sure Susan Gollop will be kind to you.”
But the first aspect of Susan Gollop made Gundra shrink back and clutch Martin by the sleeve. The good woman was beating a mat on the waste ground at the rear of the house, and the vigour of her strokes with the cane, and the fierce set of her mouth, seemed to promise little kindness.
“Here’s a poor little Indian boy, Susan,” Martin began.
“Don’t worry me!” Susan interrupted. “I’m late as it is; Gollop will be roaring for his breakfast in a minute. And why aren’t you at your work, I’d like to know?”
All the same, she looked inquisitively at the shrinking child. Martin, knowing her morning temper of old, discreetly said nothing, but took Gundra back into the house, and set him on a stool with a wedge of treacle-cake from the table.
Presently Susan came in, flung the mat upon the floor; then, placing her hands on her hips, stood over the boys and demanded:
“Now what’s all this about? Who’s this black boy?”
“He’s an Indian, and has run away from a ship where they were ill-using him,” Martin replied.
“Sakes alive! And what’s that to do with you, Martin Leake?”
“I want to help him. I want you to keep him here for a day or two, until we can decide what to do with him.”