And then Molly began to cry bitterly, “Poor itty boy,” she sobbed. “He’s dot no home, daddy.”
“H’m,” grunted the miller, “and a lazy loon anyhow he is, I’ll warrant.”
“No, faith, that I’m not,” contradicted Charles, with a flash of indignation in his eyes.
“Would you like to work, if you’d the chance?” said the miller, “at the mill here, for example?”
“Try me,” said Charles, looking longingly at the sails as they twirled, dazzling as silver in the sunshine. Of all things in the world, next to a colonel, he thought he would like to be a miller, and have to do with those sails and great, fat sacks. “Only try me.”
“Very well, I will for a week,” said the miller, “but, mind you, it isn’t play work. Come along. ’Tis a busy time, and I’ve no objections to an extra hand, if he’s a good, honest one.”
Molly clapped her two little hands with delight, and trotted off indoors to tell her mother all that had happened. And in an hour there was a marvelous sight, for the blackamoor boy was turned into such a whitymoor sort of a figure that there was certainly less chance than ever of anyone recognizing him for the little runaway Prince of Wales.