The widow rose as she spoke, and it was not many paces Mr. Brook need follow her before he reached the table.
With a commendable view to eking out a short supply, Bonny had placed the basket of flowers again upon the board, though she had had to substitute a coarse tablecloth for the daintily embroidered fabric which was intended for a richer household; and, at the first glance, the guest almost believed that the posies were to be their only repast.
However, this was not the case. There were roasted potatoes, bread, butter, and a fragrant cup of tea; the last a luxury, and the one addition which had been made to the regular fare. Now tea was an abomination to the palate of Philipse Chidly Brook, and potatoes he never ate, when he could help himself; but this being an occasion when he evidently could not, he put a brave face on the matter, and accepted them as if they were the rarest of delicacies. Suddenly he looked up from his plate, and beheld the dark eyes of Robert fixed upon him with critical attention.
“Well, my lad! Out with it! A penny for your thoughts.”
For once the graceless boy was scared. The prospect of possible tips depended upon his present behavior, and he choked back the remark that had almost escaped his lips. “I—I haven’t any. I—I mean—I dassent tell ’em.”
“Not for the penny?”
“No, sir, not fer a nickel.”
“You needn’t. I can guess them. In any case I never go above the traditional price of thoughts.”
“I bet—you can’t guess ’em!”
“How much will you bet?”