I gave him my knife, in a thoughtful way, and he took it, opened it, and examined its edge.
“Blunt as a butter knife, Mas’r Harry,” he cried. “And now, when do we start?”
“Start, Tom?” I cried laughing. “Oh, it is not like going to London, we must make a great many preparations first, for it’s a long journey.”
“Is it?” he said. “Two or three hundred miles, Mas’r Harry?”
“A good deal more than two or three thousand, Tom,” I replied.
“Oh, all right, Mas’r Harry. I don’t mind how far it is, as long as we keep together. My word an’ honour, won’t it be different to making best yaller and mottled and cutting it into bars?”
“Different, Tom?” I said dreamily. “Yes, my lad, it will indeed.”