“I’ll warm thee, Ould Crow!” shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.
The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.
“Are you much hurt, old friend?” asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.
“I don’t know—the Lord help me!—I’m afeerd so,” replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.
“Those young rascals!” cried Jacob. “I’d just like to give ’em such a hiding as they’ve ne’er had in all their lives afore.”
“Nay, nay, friend,” said the other; “it wasn’t altogether the lad’s fault. But they’re a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on ’em’s mayster o’ their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord’ll reward ye.”
“You’re welcome, old gentleman,” said Jacob. “Can I do anything more for you?”
“Just lend me your arm for a moment; there’s a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart.”
“Never trouble about that,” said Jacob, cheerily. “I’ll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road.”
“Bless you, lad; that’ll be gradely help—‘a friend in need’s a friend indeed.’ If you’ll stick to the handles, I’ll make shift to hobble on by your side. I’m better now.”