“Mornin’, old Moredock,” cried a cheery rustic voice, and a rough, fair, curly head was thrust in at the doorway, the owner of the body keeping it carefully outside, as he held in at arm’s length an old patched boot, which had evidently been soaked in water to allow for a series of great stitches to be put into the upper leather.
For the moment it seemed as if Moredock was some grim old idol, carved in yellowish-brown wood, as he sat in his chair in the middle of his sanctuary, and the new comer was an idolater, bringing him a peace offering; but the idea died away as the old man snarled out:
“Mornin’, young Chegg. So you’ve brought it at last.”
“At last! Well, I haven’t had it so very long. Sixpence.”
“Sixpence! What, for sewing up that crack?”
“Yes, and cheap, too. Why, I’d ha’ charged parson a shilling. How are you?”
“How am I? Ah! that’s it, is it? That’s what you’ve come for. Not dead yet, Joe Chegg, and they don’t want another clerk and saxton for the old church.”
“Nay—”
“Hold your tongue when I’m speaking. Think I don’t know you. Want to step in my shoes, do you? Want to marry my grandchild Dally, do you? Well, you’re not going to while I’m alive, and I’m going to live another ten year.”
“That’s all right,” said the young man, rubbing his face with a hard hand, much tanned, and coated with wax. “I don’t want you to die.”