The deacon rose ponderously, and followed his guide into the kitchen.
“Why, there’s Matt!” he cried, in astonished accents. “Good-day, sonny.”
Matt strained his ears, but pursed his lips and rocked the cradle in violent impassivity. The deacon was uneasy at the boy’s sullen resentment. He could not understand open enemies.
“How’s your health, hey?” he asked, affectionately.
“Oh, I’m hunky dory,” said Matt, in off-hand school-boy slang.
“I’m considerable glad you’ve found a good place with rael Christians, Matt. I on’y hope you’ve made up your mind to work hard an’ turn over a new leaf. It’s never too late to mend, I allus thinks. You’re growin’ a young man, now; no more picter-makin’, hey? If it warn’t that you air so moony an’ lay-abed I’d give you a chanst on my own land, with pocket-money into the bargain, hey, an’ p’raps a pair o’ store shoes fur a Chrismus-box.”
A flame shot from Mrs. Cattermole’s now-opened eyes. She shut the cellar door with a vicious bang, but ere she could speak Matt cried out, “I wouldn’t come, not fur five shillin’s a week!”
“An’ who wants you to come fur money? What is money, hey? Is it health? Is it happiness? No, no, sonny. If money was any use, my poor Susan would hev been alive to this day. You’ll know better when you’re my age.”
He spat out now, directing the stream into the sink under the big wooden pump.
“Don’t worry ’bout him,” interposed Mrs. Cattermole. “Here’s the table.”