“Out with your scran (broken victuals), and let’s have it. I’m as hungry as a half-starved dog.”
Joe looked round. The room was filled with vagabonds of every possible description, but they were of a diversified character.
Near the fire, which was composed of dead burning embers and coke, sat an old man, whose hair was white as the driven snow, and who, to all appearance, was between seventy and eighty years of age.
His eyes appeared to be bright and piercing—certainly they were undimmed by age or care, and he fastened them on Joe Doughty for some considerable space of time. It was evident that he recognised a stranger in the countryman, whom he was endeavouring to reckon up.
“These be hard times, my friend,” said the old man, addressing himself to Joe.
“Aye, that they be, master. Work be scarce, and money be scarcer still.”
“Umph, yes. It’s a bad neighbourhood for high-flyers,” remarked the old man.
Joe, who did not understand the meaning of the term, said, haphazard, “I suppose it is, sir.”
“Yes, very bad.”
“But times ’ll mend, let us hope,” observed Joe.