He rose and crossed over to the hearth, and my dog, disturbed, sniffed at his trousers. “You are worn out,” he seemed to say; “go where you ought to go, then my master will not have to visit you, and waste the time he owes to me.” And he, too, rose and came and put his snout on my knee; “When I am old, master, you will still take care of me—that is understood between us. But this man has no one to take care of him. Let us go!”
The old man spoke at last:
“No, sir. I don’t want to go there; I can work. I don’t want to go there.”
Beyond him the whisper rose:
“Father can work, sir; ’e can work. So long as we get a crust of bread, we’d rather stay ’ere.”
“I’ve got this, but I can’t bring meself to use it. I can work; I’ve always worked.” He took out a piece of paper. It was an order admitting James White, aged 71, and Eliza White his wife, aged 71, into the local Workhouse; if used for purposes of begging to be destroyed.
“Father can work, sir; ’e can work. We seen dreadful times in this room, believe, me, sir, before we came to getting that. We don’t want to go. I tell Father I’d rather die out ’ere.”
“But you’d be so much more comfortable, Mrs. White; you must know that.”
“Yes, sir; but there it is—I don’t want to, and Father don’t want to.”
“I can work; I can go about with a barrer, or anything.”