“Why, Bess,” he cried, “you look as fresh as a rose. Ah, Father Prawle, how are you? Look here, I’ve brought you an ounce of prime tobacco,” and he held out the little roll to the old man.
Prawle took it, looking vindictively at him, and made as if to throw it over the cliff into the sea, but jerked it back at the giver’s feet.
“I don’t want your tobacco,” he said, roughly. “I could buy you and yours up a dozen times over if I liked.”
“You are precious poor if you can’t,” said Geoffrey, stooping and picking up the tobacco. “Well, if you won’t smoke it I will. But look here, Prawle, what’s the matter with you? What have I done to offend you?”
“I don’t like your coming here, and I won’t have it,” cried the old man.
“Do you want to frighten poor mother?” exclaimed Bess, hastily. “Don’t mind what he says, Mr Trethick,” she continued; “mother is so glad for you to come—it makes such a change; but father won’t believe you come on purpose to see her.”
“Then what does he suppose I come for?” said Geoffrey, sitting down on a rough bench by the path. “Does he—Oh! I see,” he said, laughing; “he thinks it’s to see you, Miss Bess. Why, Prawle, Prawle,” he continued, getting up and clapping the old man on the shoulder, “what a queer set of people you are down here!”
Bess changed colour a little as she heard the visitor’s half-contemptuous tone when he alluded to her, but she forced a smile, and spoke out firmly,—
“Yes, Mr Trethick, that’s what he thinks.”
“Then he was never more mistaken in his life,” cried Geoffrey. “Here, come and sit down, old man, and we’ll smoke a pipe together till mother wakes, and then I’ll buy some sweets and be off again; but I want a talk with you. Amos Pengelly says you know more about the mines here than most men.”