“Yes,” murmured Felix, “that I believe.”
“'Tes a 'and-made piece o' goods—the land! You has to be fond of it, same as of your missis and yer chillen. These poor pitiful fellows that's workin' in this factory, makin' these here Colonial ploughs—union's all right for them—'tes all mechanical; but a man on the land, 'e's got to put the land first, whether 'tes his own or some one else's, or he'll never do no good; might as well go for a postman, any day. I'm keepin' of you, though, with my tattle!”
In truth, Felix had looked at the old man, for the accursed question had begun to worry him: Ought he or not to give the lame old fellow something? Would it hurt his feelings? Why could he not say simply: 'Friend, I'm better off than you; help me not to feel so unfairly favored'? Perhaps he might risk it. And, diving into his trousers pockets, he watched the old man's eyes. If they followed his hand, he would risk it. But they did not. Withdrawing his hand, he said:
“Have a cigar?”
The old fellow's dark face twinkled.
“I don' know,” he said, “as I ever smoked one; but I can have a darned old try!”
“Take the lot,” said Felix, and shuffled into the other's pocket the contents of his cigar-case. “If you get through one, you'll want the rest. They're pretty good.”
“Ah!” said the old man. “Shuldn' wonder, neither.”
“Good-by. I hope your leg will soon be better.”
“Thank 'ee, sir. Good-by, thank 'ee!”