“Hoot, mon, awa' hame wi' ye. Tak' yon young tyke wi' ye an' gie him a bit wash, he's needin' it,” said Mack, smiling pleasantly at the excited and belligerent Mr. Wigglesworth.
At this point Captain Jack, slowly motoring by the lane mouth, turned his machine to the curb and leaped out.
“What's the row here?” he asked, making his way through the considerable crowd that had gathered. “What's the trouble, Wigglesworth?”
“They're knockin' my boy abaht, so they be,” exclaimed Mr. Wigglesworth. “But,” with growing and righteous wrath, “they'll find (h)out that, wotsomever they do to a kid, w'en they come (h)up agin Joe Wigglesworth they've struck somethin' 'ard—'ard, d'ye 'ear? 'Ard!” And Mr. Wigglesworth made a pass at the young Scot.
“Hold on, Wigglesworth,” said Captain Jack quietly, catching his arm. “Were you beating up this kid?” he asked, turning to the young man.
“Nae buddie's beatin' up the lad,” said Mack quietly.
“It was me,” said the girl, turning a defiant face to Captain Jack.
“You? Why! great Scot! Blest if it isn't Annette.”
“Yes, it's me,” said the girl, her face a flame of colour.
“By Jove, you've grown up, haven't you? And it was you that—”