“The brutes! The beastly brutes!” she kept saying while she rubbed his head with ointment.
There was no question about Mr. Auld’s reaction when he reached home that evening. He was furious. It never entered his head that his friend, William Gardiner, was in any way to blame. He heaped curses on the shipyard ruffians; it might well be some “Irish plot,” and he was going to see that the scoundrels were punished.
Just as soon as Frederick was somewhat recovered from his bruises, Mr. Auld took him to Esquire Watson’s office on Bond Street, with a view to procuring the arrest of the four workers. The Master gave the magistrate an account of the outrage. Mr. Watson, sitting quietly with folded hands, heard him through.
“And who saw this assault of which you speak, Mr. Auld?” he coolly inquired.
“It was done, sir, in the presence of a shipyard full of hands.”
The magistrate shrugged his shoulders.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I cannot move in this matter, except upon the oath of white witnesses.”
“But here’s my boy. Look at his head and face!” Mr. Auld was losing his temper.
“I am not authorized to do anything unless white witnesses come forward and testify on oath as to what took place.”
For one flashing moment the veil was torn from Hugh Auld’s eyes. His blood froze with horror. It would have been the same had the boy been killed! He took Frederick by the arm and spoke roughly.