“Ain’t it jolly and snug?” he cried.
“Ye-es,” I replied.
“On’y it won’t do to stop in when the sun gets on it, ’cos it’s so hot and sticky. I like it. Feyther can’t kick you here.”
This was a revelation. I had been thinking Jack’s life must be one of perfect bliss.
“Does your father kick you, then?”
“Not now. He used to when he came home after being to the public, when he was cross; but he didn’t mean nothing. Feyther’s werry fond o’ me. I wouldn’t go back to sleep in the cabin now for no money.”
Jack’s conversation suddenly stopped, and I knew by his hard breathing that he was asleep: but I lay awake for some time, peering out through a little hole left by the tarpaulin folds at the stars, thinking of Mr Blakeford and his pursuit; of what Mary would say when she read my letter; and from time to time I changed the position of my bundle, to try and turn it into a comfortable pillow; but, try how I would, it seemed as if the heel of one or other of my shoes insisted upon getting under my ear, and I dropped asleep at last, dreaming that they were walking all over my head.