"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 don't I, my boy, or he'd never have left you in charge of old Pouncewax. But lookye here now; out with it! What do you mean to do-- give notice to leave, or are you going to cut?" "Cut what, sir?" "Cut what! Why, cut away--run up to London." I hesitated for a few moments and hung my head; then, looking up in my old friend's face, as he thrust his hand into his cuff--and I expected to see him draw his pipe--I felt that I had nothing to fear from him, and I spoke out. "Please, Mr Rowle, I'm so unhappy here, that I was going to run away." He caught me by the collar so sharply that I thought he was going to punish me; but it was only touring down his other hand with a sharp clap upon my shoulder. "I'm glad of it, young un. Run away, then, before he crushes all the hope and spirit out of you."