He stopped short.
“I tell you what it is; if I thought—”
Another pause, during which Jock Morrison made his short pipe still shorter by biting off a piece of the stem and spitting it out.
“Shall I tell Tom—shan’t I tell Tom? Tom don’t like me, and tells me to keep myself to myself. He’d about smash him, that’s what Tom would do, if he knowed, and then he’d be miserable for ever and ever, amen, as owd Sammy Warmoth used to say.”
Another smoking fit.
“She’s a good little lass, and the trouble she was in about her bairn was terrible.”
More smoking, and the robin looking wondering on.
“Polly don’t like me, but she’s a kind-hearted little lass, and has give me many a hunk of bread and meat unknown to Tom, and I never see but that she was as square as square.”
Another long smoke.
“Master Serrol, eh? Why, of course! She must ha’ knowed him when she lived at parson’s. I’ll tell Tom.”