"No, Tom, it ban't," answered the avaricious Bickford. "This here's the chance of a lifetime. Us'll be made men or mice, for evermore."
Putt picked up a stone.
"I do think she'm rich enough to part with a bit more," he said. "Now I be going to have a chuck, an' I'm a better shot than him, ban't I, Mark?"
"Yes, you be."
"Three hunderd—three hunderd—four hunderd—four hunderd for each of 'e. I'd tear my heart out for 'e if I could, you greedy, cruel dogs. Spare it, spare all that an old woman have got in the wide world. If you knew—if——"
Putt flung a stone and took care to do no harm. His missile fell into the river a yard wide. Then Bickford prepared to fling again.
"Third time be lucky," he said. "I'll bet you all the old bitch's money as I scat un to shivers now."
"Four fifty for each of 'e—four hunderd an' fifty each; an' it do leave me picked clean to the bone."
She plunged her hand into her breast and dragged out a pile of notes.
"Take it an' leave me to starve, you sarpints; you as rob widows' houses. Take it; an' may it turn to hell fire an' burn your entrails for everlasting!"