"Yes," she replied, "yes." In spite of herself, her voice had a sad note in it. "Well, you see, Dave, you can't keep yourself on half a crown a week."
"I wish I could," he answered, looking dispirited, "but I thought you were content. Is there anything that worries you, old lady?"
"No, that there aint, my brave boy. You stick to your work and please your master; you're safe to get on."
"I wish I could support myself," said David. "I wish I knew shorthand; that's the thing. A lad who knows shorthand, and can write and spell as well as I can, can earn his ten shillings a week easy."
"Ten shillings a week," said Grannie. "Lor' save us, what a power of money!"
"It's true," said David; "there's a lad who was at school with me—his name was Phil Martin—he managed to pick up shorthand, and he's earning ten shillings a week now. He's a bit younger than I am, too. He won't be fifteen for two months yet."
"Shorthand?" said Grannie, in her reflective voice; "that's writing, aint it?"
"Why, to be sure, Grannie; only a different sort of writing."
"Still, you call it writing, don't you?"
"To be sure I do."