“Stee, you young beggar,” said Wraysford, as the boy entered, “if you don’t have my tea piping hot to-night, and fresh herrings for three done to a regular turn, I’ll flay you alive, my boy. And now, if you’re good, you may come and kick me!”
Stephen, overflowing with joy, and quite rickety with emotion, flew at his old friend, and, instead of kicking him, caught hold of his arm, and turning to his brother, cried, “Oh, Noll! isn’t this prime? Why, here’s old Wray—”
“That beast Wraysford,” suggested the owner of the title; “do give a fellow his proper name, young ’un.”
This little interruption put Stephen off his speech; and the three, locking the study-door, settled down to talk rationally, or, at any rate, as rationally as they could, over affairs.
“You see,” said Wraysford, “I can’t imagine now what possessed me to make such a fool of myself.”
“Now you needn’t begin at that again,” said Oliver. “If I hadn’t cut up so at that jackass Simon, when he began about my being in the Doctor’s study that evening, it would never have happened.”
“Bah! any one might have known the fellow was telling lies.”
“But he wasn’t telling lies,” said Oliver. “I was in the Doctor’s study all alone that evening, and at the very time the paper went too. That’s just the queer thing about it.”
“You were?” exclaimed both the boys, for this was news even to Stephen.
“Yes, of course I was. Don’t you know I went to see him about Stephen, and that row he had up at the Lock?”