"What gars ye hearken like that, Chris?" whispered Cleg, with some anxiety. Only the news of a prize fight would have brought such an expression of interest to his own face, or (it might be) the announcement that his father had got ten years.
"It's aboot a man that got a dook, an' then he could walk!" said Chris, speaking hurriedly over his shoulder, being anxious not to miss a word.
"What hindered him to dook afore?" asked Cleg.
"He couldna get doon to the water-edge," said Chris.
"Was the bobby there?" persisted Cleg, to whom the limit of where he might not go or might not do coincided with the beat of the officers of Her Majesty's peace.
"Wheesht!" interjected Chris Cullen, "she's telling it the noo!"
For the lame boy, his teacher existed for this purpose alone.
The calm, high voice of Miss Robina Semple went on—Robina Semple, whom some called "a plain old maid"—
"And so the poor man, who had no one to carry him down to the edge when the angel troubled the water, had to stay where he was, and somebody else got in before him! Are you not sorry for him?"
"Never heed, Chris Cullen," broke in Cleg, "I'll cairry ye doon on my back mysel'! There's naebody will daur to hinder ye dookin' in ony dub ye like, when I'm cairryin' ye!"