"Mother's in the kitchen," he said; "the boys are on the common flying a kite, and Izzie's in the garden."
"Is your father at home?" Sigismund asked.
"No, he isn't, Clever; you might have known that without asking. Whenever is he at home at this time of day?"
"Is tea ready?"
"No, nor won't be for this half-hour," answered the boy, triumphantly; "so, if you and your friend are hungry, you'd better have some bread and marmalade. There's a pot in your drawer up-stairs. I haven't taken any, and I shouldn't have seen it if I hadn't gone to look for a steel pen; so, if you've made a mark upon the label, and think the marmalade's gone down lower, it isn't me. Tea won't be ready for half-an-hour; for the kitchen-fire's been smokin', and the chops can't be done till that's clear; and the kettle ain't on either; and the girl's gone to fetch a fancy loaf,—so you'll have to wait."
"Oh, never mind that," Sigismund said; "come into the garden, George; I'll introduce you to Miss Sleaford."
"Then I shan't go with you," said the boy; "I don't care for girls' talk. I say, Mr. Gilbert, you're a Midlandshire man, and you ought to know something. What odds will you give me against Mr. Tomlinson's brown colt, Vinegar Cruet, for the Conventford steeple-chase?"
Unfortunately Mr. Gilbert was lamentably ignorant of the merits or demerits of Vinegar Cruet.
"I'll tell you what I'll do with you, then," the boy said; "I'll take fifteen to two against him in fourpenny-bits, and that's one less than the last Manchester quotation."
George shook his head. "Horse-racing is worse than Greek to me, Master Sleaford," he said.