He faltered in his speech oddly, and even reddened a little, at the same time rubbing his hands together with a nervousness which seemed habitual to him.
“Mester Ed'ard, I mean,” he added—“th' young mester as is here. I heerd as he liked 'Merika, an'—an' I comn.”
The loungers glanced at each other, and their glance did not mean high appreciation of the speaker's intellectual powers. There was a lack of practicalness in such faith in another man as expressed itself in the wistful, hesitant voice.
“Did he say he'd give you work?” asked the first man who had questioned him, the Welshman Evans.
“No. I dunnot think—I dunnot think he'd know me if he seed me. Theer wur so many on us.”
Another exchange of glances, and then another question: “Where are you going to stay?”
The homely face reddened more deeply, and the lad's eyes—dull, soft, almost womanish eyes—raised themselves to the speaker's. “Do yo' knew anybody as would be loikely to tak' me in a bit” he said, “until I ha' toime to earn th' wage to pay? I wouldna wrong no mon a penny as had trusted me.”
There was manifest hesitation, and then some one spoke: “Lancashire Jack might.”
“Mester,” said the lad to Evans, “would you moind speakin' a word fur me? I ha' had a long tramp, an' I'm fagged-loike, an'”—He stopped and rose from his seat with a hurried movement. “Who's that theer as is comin'?” he demanded. “Isna it th' young mester?”
The some one in question was a young man on horseback, who at that moment turned the corner and rode toward the shed with a loose rein, allowing his horse to choose his own pace.