“No, I ain’t going to try.”
“Well, look here; these men have been very good to us, and we ought to show that we are grateful. How is it to be done?”
“I don’t know,” said Punch. “We ain’t got no money, have we?”
“Not a peseta, Punch. But I tell you what will please them. You must give them your knife.”
“Give them my knife! Likely! Why, it’s the best bit of stuff that was ever made. I wouldn’t take a hundred pounds for it.”
“Well, no one will offer it to you, Punch, and you are not asked to sell it. I ask you to give it to them to pay for what they have done for us.”
“But give my knife! I wouldn’t.—Oh, well, all right. You know best, and if you think we ought to give it to them, there you are.—Good-bye, old sharper! I am very sorry to part with you all the same.”
“Never mind, Punch. I’ll give you a better one some day.”
“Some day never comes,” said the boy grumpily. “But I know you will if you can.”
Pen took the knife, and, eager to get the matter over, he stepped to where the bigger goat-herd stood watching them, and opened and shut the big clasp-knife, picked up a piece of wood, and showed how keen the blade was, the man watching him curiously the while; and then Pen closed it and placed it in the man’s hand.