"'Tis the State will pay, not you," answered Bickford.
"An' you'm the cruel devil," retorted Putt—"you as have brought Malherb's head so low—to the grave a'most."
"Money's money," repeated Bickford, "an' if you've got any, Mother Lee, now be the time to spend some. Us know you'm made of it, for all your rags. What'll you pay us not to take you along to Prince Town?"
Lovey wrung her hands.
"You silly zanies—me—look at me—clad in a dead man's clothes! Money—a few poor pounds scraped together—God He knows how few. An' a long life of starvation to come by 'em."
"What's in thicky box?" asked Bickford abruptly.
"Nought—a mere glass toy kept for old sake's sake. A thing not worth a rush but for memory. An' since you ax for money, I'll give 'e half I've got, though 'tis like giving 'e my life's blood—a five-pound note to share."
Her greed, even in this tremendous crisis, overreached her wit. A round sum had dazzled the labourers, and they had doubtless accepted it and let her depart, only to regret their conduct too late. But this miserly offer ruined Lovey Lee. Bickford was of a grasping nature also. Now greed met greed, and both man and woman were presently punished.
"'Tis much too little. Us want to see what be in that box slung so snug on your shoulder."
"An' see I will," added Tom Putt.