"Aye, I dare say you would," said the farmer, scornfully. "I've heard that tale before. Be off—the road's your place."
The derelict sighed, turned away, half-turned again. He looked at the well-fed countenance above him with a species of appealing sorrow.
"I haven't had a bite to eat since yesterday morning," he said, and turned again.
As he turned he heard a child's piping voice, and, looking round, saw the upper half of a small head, sunny and curly, pop up over the garden wall.
"Daddy, shall I give the poor man my money-box? 'Cause it isn't nice to be hungry. Shall I, daddy?"
But the farmer's face did not relax, and the derelict sighed again and turned away. He had got into the road, and was going off when the big, masterful voice arrested him.
"Here, you!"
The derelict looked round, with new hope springing in his heart. The man was beckoning him; the child, on tiptoe, was staring at him out of blue, inquisitive eyes.
"Come here," said the farmer.
The derelict went back, hoping. The man at the wall, however, looked sterner than ever. His keen eyes seemed to bore holes in the other's starved body.