“Richard? What’s his other name?”
“He didn’t have any other name. Kings don’t have any but a given name.”
“No?”
“But they don’t.”
“Well, if they like it, Tom, all right; but I don’t want to be a king and have only just a given name, like a nigger. But say—where you going to dig first?”
“Well, I don’t know. S’pose we tackle that old dead-limb tree on the hill t’other side of Still-House branch?”
“I’m agreed.”
So they got a crippled pick and a shovel, and set out on their three-mile tramp. They arrived hot and panting, and threw themselves down in the shade of a neighboring elm to rest and have a smoke.