“No, I don’t,” said Jack shortly. “It means nothing but misery and discomfort. A rough life amongst rough people; no chance to read and study. Oh, it would be dreadful.”
“Well!” exclaimed the man; and again, “Well! You do cap me, sir, that you do. Can’t you see it means change?”
“I don’t want change,” cried Jack petulantly.
“Oh, don’t you say that, sir,” cried Edward reproachfully; “because, begging your pardon, it ain’t true.”
“What! Are you going to begin on that silly notion too? I tell you I am not ill.”
“No, sir, you’re not ill certainly, because you don’t have to take to your bed, and swaller physic, and be fed with a spoon, but every bit of you keeps on shouting that you ain’t well.”
“How? Why? Come now,” cried the boy with more animation, as he snatched at the opportunity for gaining an independent opinion of his state. “But stop: has my father or Doctor Instow been saying anything to you?”
“To me, sir? Not likely.”
“Then tell me what you mean.”
“Well, sir; you’re just like my magpie.”