I was very stiff and sore, and there was a peculiar giddiness ready to
assail me as soon as I moved, so Mary, in her double capacity of doctor
and nurse, decided that I was not to attempt to walk about that day.
The consequence was that she made no scruple about dragging a little
couch out of the parlour into the kitchen, and after I was dressed,
making me lie down near the fire.
"If they don't like it about the sofy, they must do the other thing,"
she said, laughing. "I say, do you know what time it is?"
"No," I replied.
"Half-past ten, and I've been waiting breakfast till you woke. You
_have_ had a sleep. I wouldn't wake you, for I thought it would do you
good."
"I am better, a great deal," I said.
"Yes; so you are. He ain't, or pretends he ain't. Miss Hetty's been
catching it."
"Has she?"
"Yes; for wanting to know about you. Missus told her you were a wicked
young wretch, and had half killed your master, and she was never to
mention your name again."
I was decidedly better, and in the course of the afternoon I got up and
found that the various objects had ceased to waltz around. I made my
way up to my bedroom, and for the first time had a look at myself in the
glass, where I found that a sore feeling upon my face was caused by a
couple of black marks which crossed each other at a sharp angle, and
that high up above my temple, and just where the hair would cover it,
there was a patch of black court-plaister, which 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?"