"Mess about?"
"Yes."
"Well, look you, I felt so sorry."
"For whom? For what?"
"For whom? For that man, I suppose."
"For that—man?" drawled Jig-Leg. "Come now, take a pinch of snuff, and have done with it. Ah! you're a good soul, but you've no sense. What's the man to you? Can I make you understand that? Why, he'd collar you, and smash you like a flea beneath his nail! At the very time that you are pitying him I Then you'll go and declare your stupidity to him, and in return for your compassion, he'll plague you with all the seven plagues. Why, you carry your very guts in your hand for people to look at, and drag your very vitals out into the light of day. Pity indeed!—Ugh! I've no patience with you. For Heaven's sake, why don't you have pity on yourself, instead of knocking yourself to bits? A pretty fellow you are! Pity indeed!—pooh!"
Jig-Leg was quite outraged.
His voice, cutting and full of irony and contempt for his comrade, resounded through the wood, and the branches of the shrubs shook with a gentle rustle, as if agreeing with the rough truth of his words.
Hopeful, overwhelmed by these reproaches, paced along slowly on his trembling legs, drawing up his arms into the sleeves of his jacket, and drooping his head upon his breast.
"Wait!" said he at last. "What matters it? I'll put it all right. When we come to the village, I will go into it—all alone. I'll go—you need not come with me.... I'll prig the very first thing that falls within my reach—and so home! Come along, and I'll show you something! It will be hard for me—but don't say a word."