“I’ll watch out, father.”
“You can’t be too civil,” urged the father of Collingwood, anxiously. “I tell you that, Bobbie, because, naturally, you ain’t what I call the humblest chap going, and if you want these nobs to agree to what you want, you must show ’em any amount of what I may venture to call deference.”
“I’ll lick all the bloomin’ blackin’ off their bloomin’ boots,” promised Bobbie.
“Give your ’ands another wash,” recommended the father, “and then go up.”
The Superintendent stood at the side of the table; seated there were half-a-dozen men who looked like, and indeed were, retired tradesmen. In one of them the lad recognized the carpenter (now in white waistcoat and with other signs of prosperity) who had been on the jury which had investigated, years ago, the death of his mother. A cheery red-faced man sat in the large arm-chair.
“Robert Lancaster, gentlemen, fourteen years of age and a good lad with a fairly good record, has passed the Fourth Standard, and is one of the best of our bandsmen.”
“Now, my lad!” The jovial-looking chairman pointed the ruler at him. “What would you like to be? We’ve fed you and educated you and brought you up, and we don’t want to see all the trouble wasted.”
“Moreover,” said the carpenter, as Bobbie prepared to speak, “it’s a question on which, by rights, you ought to take our advice. We’re men of the world, and as such we know what’s good for you a jolly sight better than you do. My argument has always been that pauper children—”
The chairman coughed.
“Or whatever you like to call ’em ought not to be allowed to pick and choose. It pampers ’em,” said the carpenter, gloomily, sending his penholder, nib downwards, into the table, “I don’t care what you say; it pampers ’em.”