“There’s nowt the matter with me. I’m wantin’ work.”
The boy seemed to think this an amusing idea, for he grinned widely, showing an even row of very white teeth. Then he sat down on the doorstep, put his cage of mice on the ground, and began to whistle; his bright eyes keenly observing Frank from top to toe meanwhile, and finally resting on his thick hobnailed boots. Then he asked briefly:
“Farm-work?”
“I’d ratherly get any other,” answered Frank. And feeling it his turn to make some inquiries, he said:
“What do yer carry them mice fur?”
The boy looked at him for a minute in silence; then he chuckled, and gave a long low whistle.
“I say, little chap,” he said confidentially, “ain’t you a flat! Just rather.”
Seeing on Frank’s face no sign of comprehension he continued:
“Without them little mice I should be what they calls a wagrant. Many a time they’ve saved me from the beak, and from being run in. Them’s my business; and a nice easy trade it is. Lots of change and wariety. No one to wallop yer. Live like a jintleman.”
He waved his hand at his last words with a gesture expressive of large and easy circumstances. Frank glanced at his bare feet and generally dishevelled appearance.