“What! Are you Rollitt’s father?” asked they, glancing involuntarily at the shabby clothes and rough, weatherbeaten face.
“Nothing to be ashamed of, are it?” said the stranger. “’Tain’t my Alf’s fault I ain’t in gents’ togs.”
This rebuke abashed our two juniors considerably.
“Rather not,” said Wally. “Our lot’s backing Rollitt up, you know. We’ve been out to look for him, haven’t we, D’Arcy?”
“Of course we have; good old Rollitt,” said D’Arcy.
“Thank you kindly, young gents,” said Mr Rollitt, who seemed rather dazed. “I ain’t no scholar, nor no gent either. But my boy Alf’s a good boy, and he don’t mean no disrespect to the likes of you by running away. He’s bound to be somewheres.”
“I say,” said Wally, “if you come round to the other gate, you can get in—we’ll show you where Ringwood’s house is.”
“Tell you what,” said he to D’Arcy, as the two boys went back by the field to meet him, “he doesn’t seem a bad sort of chap—it won’t do to let my young brother Percy and those Modern cads get hold of him. I vote we nurse him on our side while he’s here.”
“All serene,” said D’Arcy. “Ask him to tea after the meeting.”
“I suppose we shall have to let those other chaps be in it too,” suggested Wally dubiously, after a moment.