“He says there's just enough to frighten them, and that your help—the two of ye together—could work it well.”
“He has not, then, found out the claimant?”
“He has his name, and the regiment he's in, but that's all. He was talking of writing to him.”
“If he's wise, he'll let it alone. What chance would a poor soldier in the ranks have against a great lord, if he had all the right in the world on his side?”
“So I told him; but he said we could make a fine thing out of it, for all that; and, somehow, Davy, he's mighty seldom mistaken.”
“If he be, sir, it is because he has hitherto only meddled with what lay within his power. He can scheme and plot and track out a clew in the little world he has lived in; but let him be careful how he venture upon that wider ocean of life where his craft would be only a cock-boat.”
“He hasn't your stuff in him, Davy,” cried the old man, in ecstasy; and a very slight flush rose to the other's cheek at the words, but whether of pride, or shame, or pleasure, it were hard to say. “I 've nothing to offer you, Davy, except a cut of cold pork; could you eat it?” said the old man.
“I'm not hungry, father; I'm tired somewhat, but not hungry.”
“I'm tired, too,” said the old man, sighing; “but, to be sure, it's time for me,—I 'll be eighty-nine if I live till the fourth of next month. That's a long life, Davy.”
“And it has been an active one, sir.”