“Too young,” I said, with a feeling of eagerness flashing through me.
“Not you,” he said slowly, as he looked down at me and seemed to measure me with his eye as one of my uncles did. “There’s a much littler boy than you goes with one of the carts, and I see him cutting about the market with a book under his arm, looking as chuff as a pea on a shovel. He ain’t nothing to you. Come along o’ me. I’ll take an old coat for wrapper, and you’ll be as right as the mail. You ask him. He’ll let you come.”
Ike was wrong, for when I asked Old Brownsmith’s leave he shook his head.
“No, no, boy. You’re too young yet. Best in bed.”
“Too partickler by half,” Ike growled when I let him know the result of my asking. “He’s jealous, that’s what he is. Wants to keep you all to hisself. Not as I wants you. ’Tain’t to please me. You’re young and wants eddicating; well, you wants night eddication as well as day eddication. What do you know about the road to London of a night?”
“Nothing at all, Ike?” I said with a sigh.
“Scholard as you are too,” growled Ike. “Why, my figgering and writing ain’t even worth talking about with a pen, though I am good with chalk, but even I know the road to London.”
“He’ll let me go some day,” I said.
“Some day!” cried Ike in a tone of disgust. “Any one could go by day. It’s some night’s the time. Ah! it is a pity, much as you’ve got to learn too. There’s the riding up with the stars over your heads, and the bumping of the cart, and the bumping and rattle of other carts, as you can hear a mile away on a still night before and behind you, and then the getting on to the stones.”
“On to the stones, Ike?” I said.