‘No fools at the fair,
No sale for bad ware,’
you know?”
He looked for sympathy in the face of the Sergeant-Major, but he found there neither sympathy nor ridicule, but a serene, dignified, supercilious composure.
“Well, I’m not married, and more’s the pity,” he said, affecting a kind of jocularity, uneasily; “but among ’em they’ve made me a present of a brat they calls my son, and I must just put him to nurse and provide for him, I do suppose; and keep all quiet, and ye’ll look out some decent poor body that lives lonely and won’t ask no questions nor give no trouble, but be content wi’ a trifle, and I’ll gi’e’t to you every quarter for her, and she’ll never hear my name, mind, nor be the wiser who owns it or where it came from. I’d rayther she thought ’twas a poor body’s—if they think a fellow’s well-to-do it makes ’em unreasonable, and that’s the reason I pitched on you, Archdale, because ye’re a man o’ sense, and won’t be talkin’ like the pratin’ fools that’s goin’—and is it settled? is it a bargain?”
“Yes, sir, I thank you, quite,” said Archdale.
“Well, then, ye shall hear from me by the end o’ the week, and not a word, mind—till all’s signed and sealed—about Noulton Farm, and about t’other thing—never. The stars is comin’ out bright, and the sunset did ye mind; we’ll ’a frost to-night; it’s come dark very sudden; sharp air.”
He paused, but the non-commissioned officer did not venture a kindred remark, even an acquiescence in these meteorological speculations.
“And I heard the other day you made an organ for Mr. Arden. Is it true?” said Harry, suddenly.
“Just a small thing, three stops, sir—diapason, principal, and dulciana.”