“Then all the redemptioners, as you call ‘em, go to ‘Merica for is to work?”
“To be sure, to get a chance to work and get ahead, and that’s what they can’t do here.”
“Well, grandfather, I won’t be a redemptioner, because work and I have fallen out. Ain’t it so with you, Tom Hadley?”
This interrogatory was addressed to a tall pale youth, clothed in a suit of rusty black, that might have belonged to a curate, with finger nails half an inch in length, and on his fingers three valuable rings and a broad-brimmed hat on his head.
“Yes, I never fell in with it yet. Don’t think I am fool enough to work three years for the sake of getting a chance to work all the rest of my life, a thing I am altogether above and do despise.”
“If you won’t work how do you expect to live?”
“By stealing,” replied the lank boy, displaying his rings.
“By working when we can’t do any better, granddaddy, and begging for the rest,” said Tom Hadley.
During this conversation this select company had gradually gathered around Wilson, and one of them was in the act of purloining a handkerchief from the latter’s pocket, when he received a blow from a stout cudgel in the hand of the Scotchman, that felled him to the ground.
“Why don’t you take Foolish Jim?” said the red-headed chap, “he’ll work; rather work than not.”