CHAPTER VIII.
“Is it possible you care for that girl yet, Tom? A rejected lover, too? Where’s your spirit, man? Pshaw—there’s many a fairer face than Mary Ford’s; besides, she is more than half crazy. Are you mad, Tom? You wouldn’t catch me sighing for a girl who had cried her eyes out for the villainy of my rival.”
“Curse him!” said Tom Shaw, striking his boots with a light cane he held in his hand; “he is safe enough, at any rate, for some time to come; good for a couple more years, I hope, for striking that fellow in prison. When he comes out, if he ever does, he will find his little bird in my nest. Half-witted or whole-witted, it matters little to me. I am rich enough to please my fancy, and the girl’s face haunts me.”
“Pooh!” said Jack; “you are just like a spoiled child—one toy after another, the last one always the best. I know you—you’ll throw this aside in a twelvemonth; but marriage, let me tell you, my fine fellow, is a serious joke.”
“Not to me,” said Tom, “for the very good reason that I consider it dissolved when the parties weary—or at any rate, I shall act on that supposition, which amounts to the same thing, you know.”
“Not in law,” said Jack.
“Nonsense,” replied Tom; “I am no fool; trust me for steering my bark clear of breakers. At any rate, I’ll marry that girl, if perdition comes after it—were it only to spite Percy. How he will gnash his teeth when he hears of it, hey? The old man is dead, and the old woman is left almost penniless. I’ll easily coax her into it. In fact, I mean to drive out there this very afternoon. Mary Ford shall be Mrs. Tom Shaw, d’ye hear?”
“Good day, Pike! Haven’t got a pitchfork you can lend a neighbor, have ye? Ours is broke clean in two; I’m dreadful hard put to it for horseflesh, or I would drive to the village and buy a new one. You see that pesky boy of mine has lamed our mare; it does seem to me, Pike, that boys allers will be boys—the more I scold at him, the more it don’t do no good.”