“Yes, but you are,” said Hardy, coming forward.
“Am I?” said Loveit; “of what, pray, am I afraid?”
“Of doing wrong!”
“Afraid of doing wrong!” repeated Tarlton, mimicking him, so that he made everybody laugh. “Now, hadn’t you better say afraid of being flogged?”
“No,” said Hardy, coolly, after the laugh had somewhat subsided, “I am as little afraid of being flogged as you are, Tarlton; but I meant—”
“No matter what you meant; why should you interfere with your wisdom and your meanings; nobody thought of asking you to stir a step for us; but we asked Loveit, because he’s the best fellow in the world.”
“And for that very reason you should not ask him, because, you know he can’t refuse you anything.”
“Indeed, though,” cried Loveit, piqued, “there you’re mistaken, for I could refuse if I chose it.”
Hardy smiled; and Loveit, half afraid of his contempt, and half afraid of Tarlton’s ridicule, stood doubtful, and again had recourse to his battledore, which he balanced most curiously upon his forefinger. “Look at him!—now do look at him!” cried Tarlton; “did you ever in your life see anybody look so silly?—Hardy has him quite under his thumb; he’s so mortally afraid of Parson Prig, that he dare not, for the soul of him, turn either of his eyes from the tip of his nose; look how he squints!”
“I don’t squint,” said Loveit, looking up, “and nobody has me under his thumb! and what Hardy said was only for fear I should get in disgrace; he’s the best friend I have.”