She drew back her hand at once.  Boys scorn any show of feeling, even between mother and son; and Charles should not be ridiculed on her account.  So he sponged away and she waited, remembering how she had taught him, when turned a year old, to cry softly after a whipping.  Ten children she had brought up in a far Lincolnshire parsonage, and without sparing the rod; but none had been allowed to disturb their father in his study where he sat annotating the Scriptures or turning an heroic couplet or adding up his tangled household accounts.

A boy pushed through the group around the basin, with news that Butcher Randall had come-to from his swoon and wished to shake hands:  and almost before Charles could pick up a towel and dry himself the fallen champion appeared with a somewhat battered grin.

“No malice,” he mumbled:  “nasty knock—­better luck next time.”

“Come, I say!” protested Charles, shaking hands and pulling a mock face, “Is there going to be a next time?”

“Well, you don’t suppose I’m convinced—­” Randall began:  but Mrs. Wesley broke in with a laugh.

“There’s old England for you!” She brought her mittened palms together as if to clap them, but they rested together in the very gesture of prayer. “‘Won’t be convinced,’ you say? but oh, when it’s done you are worth it!  Nay—­don’t hide your face, sir!  Wounds for an honest belief are not shameful, and I can only hope that in your place my son would have shown so fair a temper.”

“Whe-ew!” one of the taller boys whistled.  “It’s Wesley’s mother!”

“She was watching, too:  the last two rounds at any rate.  I saw her.”

“And I.”

“—­And so cool it might have been a dog-fight in Tuttle Fields.  Your servant, ma’am!” The speaker made her a boyish bow and lifted his voice:  “Three cheers for Mrs. Wesley!”

They were given—­the first two with a will.  The third tailed off; and Mrs. Wesley, looking about her, laughed again as the boys, suddenly turned shy or overtaken by a sense of delicacy, backed away sheepishly and left her alone with her son.

“Put on your shirt,” said she, and again her hand went out to help him.  “I want you to take a walk with me.”

Charles nodded.  “Have you seen Sam?”

“Yes.  You may kiss me now, dear—­there’s nobody looking.  I left him almost an hour ago:  his leg is mending, but he cannot walk with us.  He promises, though, to come to Johnson’s Court this evening—­I suppose, in a sedan-chair—­and greet your uncle Annesley, whom I have engaged to take back to supper.  You knew, of course, that I should be lodging there?”

“Sammy—­we call him Sammy—­told me on Sunday, but could not say when you would be arriving here.”

“I reached London last night, and this morning your uncle Matthew came to my door with word that the Albemarle had entered the river.  I think you are well enough to walk to the Docks with me.”