But George’s incautious speech recalled one or two facts to them, and whilst George sat slowly endeavoring to realize that new idea, “Master Jan Ford, full young gentleman, and at least half Frenchman” (for of any other foreigners George knew nothing), the Cheap Jack was pondering the words “five-pound bill,” and connecting them with George’s account of his savings when they last met; and his quicker spouse was also putting two and two together, but with a larger sum. At the same instant the Cheap Jack inquired after George’s money, and his wife asked about the letter. But George had hastily come to a decision. If the tale told by the woman were true, he had got a great deal of information for nothing, and he saw no reason for sharing whatever the letter might contain with those most likely to profit by it. As to letting the Cheap Jack have any thing whatever to do with the disposal of his savings, nothing could be further from his intentions.
“Gearge bean’t such a vool as a looks,” thought that worthy, and aloud he vowed, with unnecessary oaths, that the money was still in the bank, and that he had forgotten to bring the letter, which was in a bundle that he had left at the mill.
This disappointment did not, however, diminish the civility of the Cheap Jack’s wife. She was very hospitable, and even pressed George to spend the night at their house, which he declined. He had a dread of the Cheap Jack, which was almost superstitious.
For her civility, indeed, the Cheap Jack’s wife was taken to task by her husband in a few moments when they were alone together.
“I thought you was sharper than to be took in by him!” said the hunchback, indignantly. “Do you believe all that gag about the bank and the bundle? and you, as soft to him, telling him every blessed thing, and he stowed the cash and the letter somewheres where we shall never catch a sight of ’em, and got every thing out of you as easy as shelling a pod of peas.” And in language as strong as that of the miller’s man the Cheap Jack swore he could have done better himself a hundred times over.
“Could you?” said the large-mouthed woman, contemptuously. “I wouldn’t live long in the country, I wouldn’t, if it was to make me such a owl as you’ve turned into. It ain’t much farther than your nose you sees!”
“Never mind me, Sal, my dear,” said the hunchback, anxiously. “I trusts you, my dear. And it seems to me as if you thought he’d got ’em about him. Do you, my dear, and why? And why did you tell him the truth, straight on end, when a made-up tale would have done as well, and kept him in the dark?”
“Why did I tell him the truth?” repeated the woman. “’Cos I ain’t such a countrified fool as to think lies is allus the cleverest tip, ’cos the truth went farthest this time. Why do I think he’s got ’em about him? First, ’cos he swore so steady he hadn’t. For a ready lie, and for acting a lie, and over-acting it at times, give me townspeople; but for a thundering big un, against all reason, and for sticking to it stupid when they’re downright convicted, and with a face as innercent as a baby’s, give me a country lump. And next, because I can tell with folks a deal sharper than him, even to which side of ’em the pocket is they’ve got what they wants to hide in, by the way they moves their head and their hands.”
“Which side is it of him, Sal?” said the hunchback, with ugly eagerness.
“The left,” said Sal; “but it won’t be there long.”