I was dumb-foundered! I had occasionally seen the said Bill Watkins, whose business it was to collect the skins which my father had bought from the farmers round about. A distinct vision presented itself to me of Bill and his cart, from which dangled the sanguinary exuviae of defunct animals, while in front the said Bill sat enthroned, dirty-clad, and dirty-handed, with his pipe in his mouth. The idea of John Halifax in such a position was not agreeable.
"But, father—"
He read deprecation in my looks—alas! he knew too well how I disliked the tan-yard and all belonging to it. "Thee'rt a fool, and the lad's another. He may go about his business for me."
"But, father, isn't there anything else?"
"I have nothing else, or if I had I wouldn't give it. He that will not work neither shall he eat."
"I will work," said John, sturdily—he had listened, scarcely comprehending, to my father and me. "I don't care what it is, if only it's honest work."
Abel Fletcher was mollified. He turned his back on me—but that I little minded—and addressed himself solely to John Halifax.
"Canst thee drive?"
"That I can!" and his eyes brightened with boyish delight.
"Tut! it's only a cart—the cart with the skins. Dost thee know anything of tanning?"