“To take it wouldn’t make it ours, Tommy.”
“Wouldn’t it, though? I believe when I’d eaten it, it would be mine—rather!”
“No, it wouldn’t. Think of having in your stomach what wasn’t yours! No, you must pay for it. Perhaps they would take my soap for a turnip. I believe it’s worth two turnips.”
He spied a man under a shed, ran to him, and made offer of the soap for a turnip apiece.
“I don’t want your soap,” answered the man, “an’ I don’t recommend cold turmits of a mornin’. But take one if you like, and clear out. The master’s cart-whip ’ill be about your ears the moment he sees you!”
“Ain’t you the master, sir?”
“No, I ain’t.”
“Then the turnips ain’t yours?” said Clare, looking at him with hungry, regretful eyes, for he could have eaten a raw potato.
“You’re a deal too impudent to be hungry!” said the man, making a blow at him with his open hand, which Clare dodged. “Be off with you, or I’ll set the dog on you.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Clare. “I did not mean to offend you.”