"That's right; I'm so glad. Nevertheless"—and I watched him as he stood, his foot planted firmly, no easy feat on the shifting bark-heap, his head erect, and his mouth close, but smiling—"Nevertheless, John, it's my opinion that you might be anything you liked."
He laughed. "Questionable that—at least at present. Whatever I may be, I am just now the lad that drives your father's cart, and works in your father's tan-yard—John Halifax, and very much at your service, Mr. Phineas Fletcher."
Half in fun, half in earnest, he uncovered his fair locks, with a bow so contradictory to the rest of his appearance, that I involuntarily recalled the Greek Testament and "Guy Halifax, Gentleman." However, that could be no matter to me, or to him either, now. The lad, like many another, owed nothing to his father but his mere existence—Heaven knows whether that gift is oftenest a curse or a boon.
The afternoon had waned during our talk; but I was very loth to part with my friend. Suddenly, I thought of asking where his home was.
"How do you mean?"
"Where do you live? where do you take your meals and sleep?"
"Why, as to that, I have not much time for eating and drinking. Generally I eat my dinner as I go along the road, where there's lots of blackberries by way of pudding—which is grand! Supper, when I do get it, I like best on this bark-heap, after the men are away, and the tan-yard's clear. Your father lets me stay."
"And where is your lodging, then? Where do you sleep?"
He hesitated—coloured a little. "To tell the truth—anywhere I can. Generally, here."
"What, out-of-doors?"