He tied up his breeches with a piece of string which was lying on the pavement, and, his hands being now free, placed them in a couple of rents which served as pockets, and began to whistle. He was not a proud boy, and was quite willing to take a lesson even from the humblest. Surely he was as useful as a dog!
The thought struck him just as a stout, kindly-looking seaman passed with a couple of shipmates. It was a good-natured face, and the figure was that of a man who lived well. A moment’s hesitation, and Master Jones, with a courage born of despair, ran after him and tugged him by the sleeve.
“Halloa!” said Mr. Samuel Brown, looking round. “What do you want?”
“Want you, father,” said Master Jones.
The jolly seaman’s face broke into a smile. So also did the faces of the jolly seaman’s friends.
“I’m not your father, matey,” he said, good-naturedly.
“Yes, you are,” said the desperate Billy; “you know you are.”
“You’ve made a mistake, my lad,” said Mr. Brown, still smiling. “Here, run away.”
He felt in his trouser pocket and produced a penny. It was a gift, not a bribe, but it had by no means the effect its donor intended. Master Jones, now quite certain that he had made a wise choice of a father, trotted along a yard or two in the rear.
“Look here, my lad,” exclaimed Mr. Brown, goaded into action by intercepting a smile with which Mr. Charles Legge had favoured Mr. Harry Green, “you run off home.”