"Out with it, you cursed young imp," said old Billy.
"Damn his fool's face, why doesn't he spake?"
"It's the mastha's saycret, and I wunnit tell it," said Davy.
"You wunnit, you idiot waistrel?"
"No, I wunnit," said Davy, stoutly.
"Look here, ye beachcomber, snappin' yer fingers at yer old uncle that's after bringin' you up, you pauper—what was it goin' doin' in the shed yander?"
"It's his saycret," repeated Davy.
Old Billy took Davy by the neck as if he had been a sack with an open mouth, and brought down his other hand with a heavy slap on the lad's shoulder.
"Gerr out, you young devil," he said.
Davy took the blow quietly, but he stirred not an inch, and he turned on his uncle with great wide eyes.