“Eh? gold? nonsense. Pyrites—mingling of iron and sulphur, Ned. Beautiful radiated lines, those. But, as I was saying, every man to his taste. Some people who have plenty of money like to go for a ride in the park, and then dress for dinner, and eat and drink more than is good for them. I don’t. Such a life as that would drive me mad.”
“But you didn’t answer my question, uncle.”
“Yes, I did, Ned. I said it was pyrites.”
“No, no. I mean the other one, uncle. Will you take me?”
“Get away with you! Go back to the rectory and read up, and by-and-by we’ll send you to Oxford, and you shall be a parson, or a barrister, or—”
“Oh, uncle, it’s too bad of you! I want to do as you do. I say: do take me!”
“What for?”
“Because I want to go. I won’t be any trouble to you, and I’ll work hard and rough it, as you call it; and I know so much about what you do that I’m sure I can be very useful; and then you know what you’ve often said to me about its being so dull out in the wilds by yourself, and you would have me to talk to of a night.”
“Silence! Be quiet, you young tempter. Take you, you soft green sapling! Why, you have no more muscle and endurance than a twig.”
“Twigs grow into stout branches, uncle.”