Archy remained silent, as he sat on a stone, listening contemptuously to the lad’s words.
“I thought I could often come here, and sit and talk to you, and bring a light, and I brought these.”
He opened the door of the horn lanthorn, and produced from his pocket a very dirty old pack of cards, at which Archy stared with profound disgust.
“You and me could play a game sometimes, and then you wouldn’t feel half so dull. I say, have a puff now!”
There was no reply.
“Shall I bring you some apples?”
Archy threw himself down, and lay on his side, with his head resting upon his hand, gazing into the darkness.
“We’ve got lots o’ fox-whelps as we make cider of, and some red-cheeks which are ever so much better. I’ll bring you some.”
“Don’t,” replied Archy coldly. “Bring me my liberty. I don’t want anything else.”
“Won’t you have the Jew’s harp, if I go and find it?”