“No, sir; to die. It don’t much matter, though; God’s here as well as there.”
“You are not a gipsy?”
“Oh dear no, sir. From my dark skin, though, I’ve been taken for one. My wife’s descended from a gipsy tribe.”
“We are thinking of placing you in the Infirmary, Jake,” cried the Pater. “You will have every comfort there, and the best of attendance. This gentleman——”
“We’ll see—we’ll see,” interposed Mr. Carden, breaking in hastily on the promises. “I am not sure that the Infirmary will do for him.”
“It is too late, sir, I think,” said Jake, quietly, to Mr. Carden.
Mr. Carden made no reply. He asked the woman if she had such a thing as a tea-cup or wine-glass. She produced a cracked cup with the handle off and a notch in the rim. Mr. Carden poured something into it that he had brought in his pocket, and stooped over the man. Jake began to speak in his faint voice.
“Sir, I’d not seem ungrateful, but I’d like to stay here with the wife and boy to the last. It can’t be for long now.”
“Drink this; it will do you good,” said Mr. Carden, holding the cup to his lips.
“This close place is a change from the tent,” I said to the woman, who was stooping over the bit of fire.