was placed across and across in strips to cover a long and painful cut.
The days glided by; the weals on my face changed colour and began to fade, while the cut on my head grew less painful. I was thrown a good deal with Mary, for no work had been set me in the office, and Mr. Blakeford kept his bed, being regularly attended by the doctor.
I found—Mary being my informant—that there was to be quite a serious case made of it, and Mrs. Blakeford had told her that I was to be an important witness to the assault.
A fortnight had passed; and as I sat alone day after day in the office thinking of a plan that had suggested itself to my mind, but fearing to put it into execution, I had two visitors who completely altered my career in life.
The first came one morning as I was writing a letter to my uncle—a letter destined never to reach him—in the shape of the big farmer, Mr. Wooster, who rapped sharply at the office door, and gazed sternly at me as I opened it and stood in the little passage.
“Where’s Blakeford?” he said sharply.
“Ill in bed, sir,” I said.
“It’s a lie, you young rascal,” he cried, catching me by the collar. “Here, how old are you?”
“Thirteen, sir.”
“And you can tell lies like that, eh? and without blushing?”
“It is not a lie, sir,” I said stoutly. “Mr. Blakeford hasn’t been down since—since—”
“I thrashed him, eh?” he said, laughing. “It was a good thrashing too, eh, youngster? But, hallo! what’s the matter with your head?”
“A cut, sir.”
“What! Did you tumble down?”
“No, sir. It was done the day you—you beat Mr. Blakeford.”
“How?”
I was silent.
“He—he didn’t dare to do it, did he?”
I was still silent.
“Look here, youngster, tell me the truth and I’ll give you a shilling.”
“I never told a lie yet, sir,” I said stoutly, “and I don’t want your shilling.”
He looked at me intently for a few moments, and then held out his hand. “Shake hands,” he said.
I placed mine in his, and he squeezed it so that he hurt me, but I did not flinch.
“I believe you, my lad. You don’t look like a lying sort, and I wish you were out of this. Now, tell me, did he make that cut on your head?” I nodded. “What with?”
“That ruler.”
“Humph! And what for?”
“Because I let you in on that day.”
“Hang him!” he cried, striding up and down the office, for he had walked straight in, “he’s a bigger scoundrel than I thought him. Now, look here, my man, there’s going to be an action, or a trial, or something, against me, and you’ll be the principal witness. Now, what are you going to do?”
“Going to do, sir?”
“Yes,” he said impatiently; “you’ll have to appear before the magistrates, and you’ll be asked all about my thrashing your master. What are you going to say?”
“I shall tell them the truth, sir.”
“No, you won’t, my boy. You’ll say what Mr. Blakeford tells you to say.”
“I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said stoutly.
“Look here, my lad, if you tell the truth, that’s all I want; if you don’t, you’ll ruin me.”
“I’m sure I shall tell the truth, sir,” I said, colouring up and speaking earnestly.
“You’ll tell the magistrates, then, that I snatched up the poker and beat Mr. Blakeford with that, eh?”
“No, sir, it was your walking-stick.”
“Was it anything like that?” he said, holding out the one he carried.
“Yes, sir, just like it. Here are the pieces, sir,” I said; and I took them out of my desk, where I had placed them.
“You’re a brave boy,” he cried, rubbing his hands; “so they are. Now look here, my boy: Mr. Blakeford says I assaulted him with the poker. Just you button those pieces of stick up in your socket—no, give them to me; I’ll take them. Now; when the day comes, and I ask you to tell the truth about it, you speak out honestly, or, better still, go and hide yourself and never come near the court at all. There’s half-a-crown for you. What, you won’t take it! Well, just as you like. Good-bye!”
He shook hands with me again, and nodding in a friendly way, left the office.
He had not been, gone more than an hour when there was another knock at the door, and on opening it, I admitted Mr. Rowle, who smiled at me as he took off his hat and smoothed his thin streaky hair across his bald head.
“Well, young un,” he said, “why, you’re growing quite a man. But what’s the matter with your forehead?”
I told him, and he gave a low, long whistle.
“I say, young un,” he said, “I dare say it ain’t no business of mine, but if I was you, I should look after another place. Perhaps, though, he wouldn’t let you go.”
“Mr. Blakeford often says, Mr. Rowle, that he wishes I was out of his sight.”
“Gammon!” said my visitor; “don’t you believe him. You do as you like; but if I was a boy like you, I wouldn’t stay here.”
I looked up at him guiltily, and he stared hard at me, as if reading my thoughts.
“Why, what’s wrong?” he said; “you look as red as a turkey cock!”
“Please, Mr. Rowle—but you won’t tell Mr. Blakeford?”
“Tell Mr. Blakeford? Not I.”
“I mean to go up to London, and try and find my uncle.”
“Try and find him? What, don’t you know where he lives?”
“No, sir.”
“Humph! London’s a big place, you know.”
“Yes, sir, but I dare say I could find him.”
“What is he—a gentleman?”
“Yes, sir, I think so.”
“So
