He stopped short there, and from his trousers pocket drew out two apples. You may think that he was going to give me one—instead of that he looked them over, selected what he evidently considered the best, bit into it, and put the other back in his pocket.
"When I leave school," he resumed, "I mean to go into business. Now, what do you think of business, Poskitt?"
I was so astonished, boy as I was, to hear this miserable mannikin talking as he did, that I dare say I only gaped at him. Between his bites at his apple he continued his evidences of a shrewd character.
"You see, Poskitt," he said, "I've thought a great deal while I've been here at Doctor Scott's. I don't think much of Doctor Scott—he's very kind, but he doesn't tell any of us how to make money. Your father's got a lot of money, hasn't he?"
"How do you know?" I said, rather angrily.
"Because," said he, quite calmly, "I see him give you money when he comes to see you. Nobody gives money away who hasn't got it. And you see, Poskitt, although my father makes a lot of money, too, he doesn't give me much—sixpence a week."
"How do you get your tarts and your apples, then?" I asked.
He gave me one more of those queer glances
"My mother and my sisters send me a basket," he answered. "Of course, Poskitt, we've got to get all we can out of this world, haven't we? And I want to get on and to make money. What do you consider the best way to make money, Poskitt?"
I was so young and irresponsible at that time, so full of knowledge of having the old farmstead and the old folks and everything behind me, that I scarcely understood what this boy was talking about. I dare say I gave him a surly nod, and he went on again—very likely, for aught I remember, eating the other apple.