“No,” said Mr Barnacle, “you must stay here. Doubleday can go.” And he touched the bell.
“Doubleday,” he said, when that youth entered, “we want you to bring here a shoeblack.”
“Yes, sir,” said Doubleday, artlessly: “will any one do?”
“No, no,” said Mr Barnacle, “the boy we wish to see is—where is he, Batchelor?”
“He works at the top of Style Street,” I said; “you will know the place by the writing all over the flagstones on either side.”
With this lucid direction Doubleday started, and I in the meanwhile was left to go on with my usual work. Most of the fellows were away at dinner, and Hawkesbury as before was invisible, so I had the place pretty much to myself, and was spared, for a time, at any rate, a good deal of unwelcome questioning.
In due time there was a sound of scuffling and protest on the stairs outside, and Doubleday reappeared dragging in Billy. That youthful hero, evidently doubting the import of this strange summons, was in a highly indignant frame of mind at being thus hauled along by the mischievous Doubleday, who, vouchsafing no explanation and heeding no protest, had simply made a grab at his unlucky young victim, and then led him away, box, brushes, and all, to Hawk Street.
“Do you hear? turn it up—do you hear?” he cried, as they entered. “Oh, go on, you let my arm be—let me go, do you hear?”
At this point he recognised me, who thought it well to interpose.
“Don’t alarm yourself, Billy,” said I, “no one’s going to hurt you.”