And the master—who was really, like many peace-lovers, fearful of noise, and consequently gave way more frequently than he ought to do, merely to avoid it—seeing that he had, in this instance, the advantage, and being well pleased with himself, resolved to make a dignified exit, and withdrew, thinking—“An evidence of truth, and an evidence of honesty—both in one day—both in one day; very pleasing, very remarkable.” Matty, however, had been offended, and she determined to show it. She paced up and down the kitchen, talking loudly to herself. “I’m not the sort to squander my master’s property on comers or goers; I know what’s enough for a boy’s dinner; and, whether he eats it or not, there it is, and I have nothing to do with it after; for Peter scorns scraps. There—be off with ye’rself—there’s nothing keeping ye’ that I know of now, ye’ got yer answer. Setting up for honesty, indeed! as if there was no one ever honest before ye’.” The boy’s eyes filled with tears. “I do not know,” he said, “why every one should be so kind to me.” “You young villain!” exclaimed Matty, with a flourish of a brobdignag poker, which seemed forged by the Cyclops. “Get out of my kitchen this moment! What do ye’ mean by saying I’m _kind_—kind enagh! A mighty fine thing ye’ are to take away my character! Botheration! _is that_ what I’m come to?” Richard flew up the stairs, concluded his evening’s shop-work to his master’s satisfaction, again went out to distribute and gather books, and religiously kept his promise; never paused before a print-shop, nor under a tempting lamp-post, to read a sentence; thought it would not become him to be proud, so nodded to Ned Brady, at his old corner. Ned hopped after him, first on one leg, then on the other, and after a brilliant somerset stood right in his path. “Come and watch for a job,” he exclaimed. “I don’t want it, thank you; I’ve a place.” “A place! Britons never should be slaves! I like odd jobs, and freedom! Lend us a bob?” “I have not got it.” “Well, then, a brownie.” “I have not even that,” replied Richard. Ned eyed him closely. “To think of your turning out like _that_,” he said, and he then walked round and round him. “We did not think we had such a fine gentleman for a friend, when we said he’d got the lucky penny.” “We were never _friends_,” observed Richard, coldly. “Don’t be too up,” was the reply, “and cut a poor cove because his toggery is not as fine as your’n. Rather small, though, aint they? Would just fit me.” He made two or three mocking bows round Richard, and vanished, playing the cart-wheel—turning over and over—along the street.