He endeavoured, in a few words, to explain the position of affairs to Love, who was characteristically quick at grasping it, and suggesting a remedy.
“That there Medlock’s got to be served, and no error!” he said. “I’ll murder ’im!”
“Nonsense!” said Reginald; “you can’t make things right by doing wrong yourself. And you know you wouldn’t do such a thing.”
“Do I know? Tell you I would, gov’nor! I’d serve him just like that there ’Pollyon in the book. Or else I’d put rat p’ison in his beer, and—my! wouldn’t it be a game to see the tet’nus a-comin’ on ’im, and—”
“Be quiet,” said Reginald; “I won’t allow you to talk like that. It’s as bad as the Tim Tigerskin days, Love, and we’ve both done with them.”
“You’re right there!” said the boy, pulling his Pilgrim’s Progress from his pocket. “My! don’t I wish I had the feller to myself in the Slough o’ Despond! Wouldn’t I ’old ’is ’ead under! Oh no, not me! None o’ yer Mr ’Elpses to give ’im a leg out, if I knows it!”
“Perhaps he’ll get punished enough without us,” said Reginald. “It wouldn’t do us any good to see him suffering.”
“Wouldn’t it, though? Would me, I can tell yer!” said the uncompromising Love.
It was evidently hopeless to attempt to divert his young champion’s mind into channels of mercy. Reginald therefore, for lack of anything else to do, suggested to him to go on with the reading aloud, a command the boy obeyed with alacrity, starting of his own accord at the beginning of the book. So the two sat there, and followed their pilgrim through the perils and triumphs of his way, each acknowledging in his heart the spell of the wonderful story, and feeling himself a braver man for every step he took along with the valiant Christian.
The morning went by and noon had come, and still the boy read on, until heavy footsteps on the stairs below startled them both, and sent a quick flush into Reginald’s cheeks.