"I don't know about pride," the lad said, "but I'd rather earn it, thank you all the same."
"Oh, blessed hour, the like o' that!" Deasy cried, actually ceasing to eat in order to stare. "Musha then, if any one would offer to fill Larry Deasy at their own expense, 'tisn't me that would stand between them and their fancy."
"I'm not a beggar," the boy said shortly.
The surly man pondered a little, and then said,—
"Look ye now. I and two more of us drink tea, and Mrs. Avery, she do make it for us. If you light that fire and make that tea, I'll pay ye in bread and meat. How will that work?"
"That will work well!" the lad said, springing up gaily; "and I'm more obliged than I can say for the chance."
With quick, handy movements, he lighted the fire, and taking the kettle which his employer produced from some hiding-place, he ran to a stream a little way off and filled it. The tea, tied up in a bag, was popped in, and when the water boiled, the tea was made. Tin mugs were now produced, and then the tea-maker was liberally paid in bread and meat, with a mug of tea "for luck," the mail said, with a queer grimace which seemed meant for a smile. If the stranger had been loath to confess that he was hungry, he was by no means loath to eat; he made a splendid meal. And yet so generous was the supply, that he did not quite finish it. Picking up the paper in which the tea had been sent, he made a parcel of what remained, and put it in his pocket. Then he turned to his surly-spoken benefactor and said,—
"May I lie down here for a spell, sir? I'm dead sleepy; and maybe you'd rouse me up before you leave the place?"
"All right. Here's a couple of sacks to cover ye. It's rather cold for sleeping out o' doors."
"I didn't sleep a wink last night or the night before that," the boy said, as he curled himself up near the remains of the fire and covered himself with the sacks. He was asleep in five minutes, and never moved until, at six o'clock, the men came back to collect their scattered belongings.