"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said he, taking up his hat and removing his snuff-box therefrom ere he set it upon his head, "talkin' 'bout Prue," he repeated, with a pinch of snuff at his nostrils.
"Well?" The word seemed shot out of George involuntarily.
"Talkin' 'bout Prue," said the Ancient again, glancing at each of us in turn, "theer was some folks as used to think she were sweet on Jarge theer, but I, bein' 'er lawful gran'feyther knowed different—didn't I, Jarge?"
"Ay," nodded the smith.
"Many's the time I've said to you a-sittin' in this very corner, 'Jarge,' I've said, 'mark my words, Jarge—if ever my Prue does marry some'un—which she will—that there some 'un won't be you.' Them be my very words, bean't they, Jarge?"
"Your very words, Gaffer," nodded George.
"Well then," continued the old man, "'ere's what I was a-comin' to—Prue 's been an' fell in love wi' some 'un at last."
Black George's pipe shivered to fragments on the floor, and as he leaned forward I saw that his great hands were tightly clenched.
"Gaffer," said he, in a strangled voice, "what do 'ee mean?"
"I means what I says, Jarge."