“He looks as if he meant to kill us.”
“I shall fight him if he tries.”
Jeffreys looked round and had a view of the valiant speaker and his companion.
They were two neatly dressed little fellows, hand-in-hand, and evidently brothers. The younger—he who considered his life in danger—was about eight, his intrepid brother being apparently about a year his senior. They had little satchels over their shoulders, and parti-coloured cricket caps on their little curly heads. Their faces were bright and shining, the knees of their stockings were elaborately darned, the little hands were unmistakably ink-stained, and their pockets were bulged out almost to bursting.
Such was the apparition which confronted the Bolsover “cad” as he sat slowly making up his mind to become a labourer.
The younger brother drew back and began to cry, as soon as he perceived that the terrible villain on the bank had turned and was regarding them.
“Freddy, Freddy, run!” he cried.
“I shan’t,” said Freddy with a big heave of his chest. “I’m not afraid.” The fluttering heart beneath that manly bosom belied the words, as Freddy, dragging his brother by the hand, walked forward.
Jeffreys did not exactly know what to do. Were he to rise and approach the little couple the consequences might be disastrous. Were he to remain where he was or skulk away, he would be allowing them to believe him the ruffian they thought him, and that lane would become a daily terror to their little lives. The only thing was to endeavour to make friends.
“What are you afraid of?” said he, in as gentle a manner as he could. “I won’t hurt you.”