‘What gentlemen?’
‘Maybe you’re one of ’em?’ said the old man, suspiciously.
‘The trustees?’
‘I wouldn’t trust ’em myself,’ said the virulent old man.
‘If you mean the gentlemen who administer this place, no, I am not one of them; nor have I ever so much as heard of them.’
‘I wish I never heard of them,’ gasped the old man: ‘at my time of life—with the rheumatics—drawing water-from that thing!’ Not to be deluded into calling it a Pump, the old man gave it another virulent look, took up his pitcher, and carried it into a corner dwelling-house, shutting the door after him.
Looking around and seeing that each little house was a house of two little rooms; and seeing that the little oblong court-yard in front was like a graveyard for the inhabitants, saving that no word was engraven on its flat dry stones; and seeing that the currents of life and noise ran to and fro outside, having no more to do with the place than if it were a sort of low-water mark on a lively beach; I say, seeing this and nothing else, I was going out at the gate when one of the doors opened.
‘Was you looking for anything, sir?’ asked a tidy, well-favoured woman.
Really, no; I couldn’t say I was.
‘Not wanting any one, sir?’