“But no more of that devil’s foolery, Flick? Dost hear, man? Take her out into the fields;—take her out into the fields! She must dance and she must smile, all in Skipsy Jane’s spangles, come noon this day. She must do so, Flick—or I ain’t Jobie Love!”
The old man paused in his vague moth-like hovering, and surveyed the outstretched figure. His own appearance was curious enough to excite a thrill of intense curiosity, had any less callous eye but that of his master been cast upon him.
He produced the effect not so much of a living person, animated by natural impulses, as of a dead body possessed by some sort of wandering spirit which made use of him for its own purposes.
If by chance this spirit were to desert him, one felt that what would be left of Old Flick would be nothing but the mask of a man,—a husk, a shard, a withered stalk, a wisp of dried-up grass! The old creature was as thin as a lathe; and his cavernous, colourless eyes and drooping jaw looked, in that indistinct light, as vague and shadowy as though they belonged to some phantasmal mirage of mist and rain drifted in from the sleeping fields.
“How did ’ee ever get Mother Sterner to let ’ee have so dainty a bit of goods?” went on Mr. Love, continuing his survey of their unconscious captive. “The old woman must have been blind-scared of the police or summat, so as to want to be free of the maid. ’Tisn’t every day you can pick up a lass so cut out for the boards as she be.”
At intervals during his master’s discourse the parchment-like visage of the old man twisted and contorted itself, as if with the difficulty of finding words.
When Job Love at last became silent, the words issued from him as if they had been rustling eddies of chaff, blown through dried stalks.
“I’ve tried her with one thing, Mister, and I’ve tried her with another,—but ’tis no use; she do cry and cry, and there’s no handling her. I guess I must take her into them fields, as you do say. ’Tis because of folks hearing that she do carry on so.”
Job Love frowned and scratched his forehead.
“Damn her,” he cried, “for a limpsy cat! Well—Old Flick—ye picked her up and ye must start her off. This show don’t begin till nigh along noon,—so if ye thinks ye can bring her to reason, some ways or t’other ways, off with ’ee, my man! Get her a bite of breakfast first,—and good luck to ’ee! Only don’t let’s have no fuss, and don’t let’s have no onlookers. I’m not the man to stand for any law-breaking. This show’s a decent show, and Job Love’s a decent man. If the wench makes trouble, ye must take her back where she did come from. Mother Sterner’ll have to slide down. I can’t have no quarrels with King and Country, over a limpsy maid like she!”