“And I reckon none else would ’a’ done it, and so says the neighbors. Will you step up-stairs, sir? Don’t mind my man, he’s just scrubbing the soot off ’im.”
A pair of huge fore-arms, a gray flannel shirt, and a red face covered with soap-suds saluted Murchison from the steaming copper in the scullery.
“Good-mornin’, sir; ’ope you’re well.”
“Better, Bains, thanks. Washing the war-paint off, eh?”
“That’s it, sir,” and the sweep grinned good-will and sturdy admiration; “the kid’s doing fine, I hear.”
“Could not be better, Bains.”
“I reckon you’ve done us a rare good turn, sir.”
Murchison’s eyes smiled at the man’s words.
“I’m glad we won,” he said; “a child’s life is worth fighting for.”
“It be, sir, it be,” and the sweep swished the soap-suds from his face till it shone like the sun brightening from behind a cloud.