“I’m going to give un a kiss, that’s what I’m a-going to do,” said the woman getting very slowly out of the gig. “He must be a lost child.”
“Well,” grumbled the man, “we didn’t come to market to find lost children.”
Then he sat forward, with his arms resting upon his knees, watching his wife as she slowly approached the unconscious child, till she was in the act of stooping over him to lay her fat red hand upon his golden curls, when there was a loud roar as if from some savage beast, and the woman jumped back scared; the horse leaped sidewise; the farmer raised his whip; and the pair of simple-hearted country folks stared at a fierce-looking face which rose out of the bed of ling, its owner having been sleeping face downward, and now glowering at them above his folded arms.
It was not a pleasant countenance, for it was foul without with dirt and more foul within from disease, being covered with ruddy fiery blotch and pimple, and the eyes were of that unnatural hue worn by one who has for years been debased by drink.
“Yah!” roared the man, half-closing his bleared eyes. “Leave the bairn alone.”
“O Izick!” gasped the woman.
“Here, none o’ that!” cried the farmer fiercely. “Don’t you frighten my wife.”
“Let the bairn alone,” growled the man again.
“How came you by him!” said the woman recovering herself. “I’m sure he can’t be your’n.”
“Not mine!” growled the man in a hoarse, harsh voice. “You let the bairn be. I’ll soon show you about that. Hi! chick!”