The Adventures of Don Lavington Nolens Volens

Excerpt

Four Folk o’ Bristol City.

“Mind your head! Crikey! That was near, ’nother inch, and you’d ha’ crushed him like an eggshell.”

“Well, you told me to lower down.”

“No, I didn’t, stupid.”

“Yes, you did.”

“No, I didn’t. You’re half tipsy, or half asleep, or—”

“There, there, hold your tongue, Jem. I’m not hurt, and Mike thought you said lower away. That’s enough.”

“No, it arn’t enough, Mas’ Don. Your uncle said I was to soop’rintend, and a nice row there’d ha’ been when he come back if you hadn’t had any head left.”

“Wouldn’t have mattered much, Jem. Nobody would have cared.”

“Nobody would ha’ cared? Come, I like that. What would your mother ha’ said to me when I carried you home, and told her your head had been scrunched off by a sugar-cask?”

“You’re right, Mas’ Don. Nobody wouldn’t ha’ cared. You aren’t wanted here. Why don’t you strike for liberty, my lad, and go and make your fortun’ in furren parts?”

“Same as you have, Mike Bannock? Now just you look ye here. If ever I hears you trying to make Master Don unsettled again, and setting him agen his work, I tells Mr Chris’mas, and no begging won’t get you back on again. Fortun’ indeed! Why, you ragged, penny-hunting, lazy, drunken rub-shoulder, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!”

“And I arn’t a bit, Jem Wimble, not a bit. Never you mind him, Master Don, you strike for freedom. Make your uncle give you your father’s money, and then off you goes like a man to see life.”

“Now lookye here,” cried the sturdy, broad-faced young fellow who had first spoken, as he picked up a wooden lever used for turning over the great sugar-hogsheads lying in the yard, and hoisting them into a trolly, or beneath the crane which raised them into the warehouse. “Lookye here, Mike Bannock, I never did knock a man down with this here wooden bar, but if you gets stirring Mas’ Don again, has it you do, right across the back. Spang!”

“Be quiet, Jem, and put the bar down,” said Lindon Lavington, a dark, well set-up lad of seventeen, as he sat upon the head of a sugar-hogshead with his arms folded, slowly swinging his legs.

“No, I sha’n’t put the bar down, Mas’ Don. Your uncle left me in charge of the yard, and—what yer sitting on the sugar-barrel for when there’s a ’bacco hogshead close by? Now just you feel how sticky you are.”

Don got off the barrel, and made a face, as he proved with one hand the truth of the man’s words, and then rubbed his treacly fingers against the warehouse wall.

“Your mother’ll make a row about that, just as my Sally does when I get molasses on my clothes.”

“You should teach her to lick it off, Jemmy Wimble,” said the rough-looking, red-faced labourer, who had lowered down a sugar-hogshead so rapidly, that he had been within an inch of making it unnecessary to write Don Lavington’s life, from the fact of there being no life to write.

“You mind your own business, Mike,” said Jem, indignantly....