Abel clutched at the suggestion.  His eyes looked sideways slyly at Mr. Baggs.  The ogre seemed inclined to talk, and through speech might come salvation, for he had acted rather than talked on previous occasions.

“We want to be different from common boys,” said the marauder.

“Well, you are, for one, and there’s no need to trouble in your case.  You was born different, and different you’ve got to be.  I suppose you’ve been told often enough who your father is?”

“Yes, I have.”

“Small wonder then that you’ve got your knife into the world at large, I reckon.  What thinking man, or boy, has not for that matter?  So you’re up against the laws and out for the liberties?  Well, I don’t quarrel with that.  Only you’re too young yet to understand what a lot you’ve got to grumble at.  Some day you will.”

Abel said nothing.  He hardly listened, and thought far less of what Mr. Baggs was saying than of what he himself would say to his companions after this great adventure.  To make friends with the ogre was no mean feat, even for a member of the Red Hand.

What motiveless malignity actuated Levi Baggs meanwhile, who can say?  He was now a man in sight of seventy, yet his crabbed soul would exude gall under pressure as of yore.  None was ever cheered or heartened by anything he might say; but to cast a neighbour down, or make a confident and contented man doubtful and discontented, affected Mr. Baggs favourably and rendered him as cheerful as his chronic pessimism ever permitted him to be.

He bade the child sit and gave him his portion of currant dumpling.

“Put that down your neck,” he said, “and don’t you think so bad of me in future.  I treat other people same as they treat me, and that’s a rule that works out pretty fair in practice, if you’ve got the power to follow it.  But some folks are too weak to treat other people as they are treated—­you, for example.  You’re one of the unlucky ones, you are, Abel Dinnett.”

Abel enjoyed the pudding; and still his mind dwelt more on future narration of this great incident than on the incident itself.  With unconscious art, he felt that the moment when this tale was told, would be far greater for him than the moment when it happened.

“I ain’t unlucky, Mister Baggs.  I would have been unlucky if you’d beat me; but you’ve give me your pudding, and I’m on your side till death now.”

“Well, that’s something.  I ain’t got many my side, I believe.  The fearless thinker never has.  You can come and see me when you mind to, because I’m sorry for you, owing to your bad fortune.  You’ve been handicapped out of winning the race, Abel.  You know what a handicap is in a race?  Well, you won’t have no chance of winning now, because your father won’t own you.”

“I won’t own him,” said the boy.  “Granny always told me he was my bitterest enemy, and she knew, and I won’t trust him—­never.”