"I don't know how he got it," the clergyman was saying. "But something painful, I understand, happened to the other man. The girl is his daughter, recovering from an illness."
Melchard took another step towards the couple.
"Better let well alone, Mr. Melchard," said Dixon Mallaby sternly. "Your servant has already made trouble enough."
Throughout these few strained moments Dick had borne himself as a man concerned only with his daughter. But at this moment Dixon Mallaby caught a gleam from his eyes which assured him that the least familiarity or impertinence of Melchard's would be resented in a manner likely to divert the crowd's lingering anger from Mut-mut to his master. Much as he disliked Melchard and his indefinitely unpleasant reputation, he was not going to have his match spoiled by the beating and kicking to a jelly of a scented and dandified Millsborough dentist.
So, ignoring Melchard, he went up to Sam Bunce.
"I am afraid your daughter is hardly as strong as you thought, Mr. Bunce," he said.
Melchard, with a finicking air of nonchalance, stood where he was left, lighting a cigarette.
"'Tis nowt but she's frit with that flay-boggart of a Chinaman," said Dick, "wi'out it be she trembles lest 'er daddy gets fightin' agen. There, then, little lass," he said, stooping to her ear, and coaxing back courage, thought the parson, with a voice extraordinarily tender. "Way out o' t' crowd her vitals'll settle back to rights and she'll foot it another six mile singing."
"Then you won't see our match, Mr. Bunce?"
"'T' lass knows nowt o' cricket," replied Dick. "'Mornin' seemed like she relished going to t' fun and press o't. But now she's feared o' seein' that blasted ogre again. So, thankin' you, sir, for your lift and your good heart to us, we'll just foot it along o'er t' moor."