“It was a very noble thing of Mr Scarfe,” said Mrs Rimbolt. “I’m sure, Louisa, my dear, you must be proud of your boy.”
“He jolly well deserves a Royal Humane medal, and I mean to write and get him one.”
“Don’t be a young duffer,” said the hero, by no means displeased at the threat; “they would laugh at the notion.”
“Would they? If they didn’t give you one, we’d make them laugh on the wrong side of their faces. I know that,” replied the boy.
“You know, auntie, it was I broke the ice,” said Raby. “Mr Jeffreys did not come to that part till he heard it crack.”
“That is the ridiculously foolish part of it; he might have known that he ought to keep off when he heard it crack. Any sensible person would.”
“Perhaps,” said Raby, colouring, “he imagined I was in danger.”
“You are a foolish child, Raby, to talk such nonsense, and should be thankful it was not you who fell in. I hope, Mr Scarfe,” added she, “that Mr Jeffreys is grateful to you for your heroic service to him.”
“There is nothing to be grateful for,” said Scarfe, in an off-hand way; “indeed, I am afraid Jeffreys is rather offended with me for what I have done than otherwise.”
“He could not be so base, my boy,” said his mother, “when he owes you his life.”