“I’ve been brought up to the farming business, but am now on my own hook. I’m a birds’-nest seller—that is when I can get any customers.”
“And do you like the calling?”
“Pretty well.”
“Oh, not very well—eh?”
“I should like it better if I could see my way towards something for the winter. It’s hard lines sometimes in the summer, but I don’t know how I shall get on in the cold weather. The birds don’t have no families when the snow is on the ground; they’ve enough to do to pick up enough for themselves at that time.”
“Quite true, boy.” Then, turning towards her companion, she said in an under tone, “You see the poor lad is no fool, as I said, and he has pluck at heart for all his poor thin body and pale face.”
The elder woman nodded, but said nothing.
“I was right!” exclaimed her companion; then turning towards Alf, she said, “I suppose you have run away from home, or something of that sort—eh?”
“I wasn’t used well, and I did leave of my own accord. I half wish I hadn’t now; but it goes against the grain to return to Stoke Ferry Farm.”
“Ah, that’s where you came from?”