“Shall you and I be friends, Hareton?” was my next essay at conversation.

An oath, and a threat to set Throttler on me if I did not “frame off” rewarded my perseverance.

“Hey, Throttler, lad!” whispered the little wretch, rousing a half-bred bulldog from its lair in a corner. “Now, wilt thou be ganging?” he asked authoritatively.

Love for my life urged a compliance; I stepped over the threshold to wait till the others should enter.

Mr.