“Best be getting back,” he said, and started off along the lane.
The child got up without a word and trotted after him, the kitten wrapped safely in the folds of his kirtle-cloak.
Hal did not think about the boy; he strode along, his eyes on the ground.
“I will get money,” he whispered to himself. “I’ve never had any. I’ve never had aught to give her, and women be capricious and whimsical. They care for that foolery. Before God I swear some day I’ll own the Ship, and, oh, you holy Saints, let me keep her till then.”
CHAPTER IX
ABOUT nine o’clock on the following morning, when the hoar-frost was still on the ragged grass and leafless trees, Anny hurried down the road which led to the Ship. She had been to see Nan Swayle, and was returning from her cabin with a large skep of onions which the old woman had insisted on sending to Gilbot in return for the half keg of rum which he had given her.
It was bitterly cold, and Anny hugged the threadbare shawl very tightly about her shoulders as she hastened on, her head bent before the driving wind.
“Well met, mistress,” said a musical voice behind her. “Prithee, may I carry thy basket?”
Anny’s heart sank as she turned her head.
Black’erchief Dick came forward, a smile on his face, and stretched out a pair of dainty white hands for the skep.