Martha Bolland was very serious now. She crept to the door of the bedroom and listened.
“I do hope yer father kens nowt o’ this,” she whispered anxiously.
Then she counted the money.
“You’ve spent sixteen shillin’s and fowerpence, not reckonin’ t’ shillin’ I gev ye this mornin’. Seventeen an’ fowerpence! Martin, Martin, whatever on?”
Such extravagance was appalling. Her frugal mind could not assimilate it readily. This sum would maintain a large family for a week.
“We stood treat to a lot of other boys and girls. But don’t be vexed to-night, mother, dear. I’m so tired.”
“Vexed, indeed. What’ll Mrs. Saumarez say? There’ll be a bonny row i’ t’ mornin’. You tak’ it back t’ first thing. An’, here. If she sez owt about t’ balance, come an’ tell me an’ I’ll make it up. You fond lad; if John knew this, he’d never forgive ye. There, honey, go te sleep.”
There were tears in her eyes as she bent and kissed him. But he was incapable of further emotion. He was half asleep ere she descended the stairs, and his last sentient thought was one of keen enjoyment, for his knuckles were sore when he closed his right hand, and he remembered the smashing force of that uppercut as it met the aristocratic nose of Master Beckett-Smythe.