“I say, mister,” piped Bagg, when the old man came abreast, “which way’s ’ome from ’ere?”
“Eh, b’y?” said Uncle Tommy. 72
“’Ome, sir. Which way is ’ome from ’ere?”
In that one word Bagg’s sickness of heart expressed itself––in the quivering, wistful accent.
“Is you ’Zekiel Rideout’s lad?” said Uncle Tommy.
“Don’t yer make no mistake, mister,” said Bagg, somewhat resentfully. “I ain’t nothink t’ nobody.”
“I knowed you was that lad,” Uncle Tommy drawled, “when I seed the size o’ you. Sure, b’y, you knows so well as me where ’Zekiel’s place is to. ’Tis t’ the head o’ Burnt Cove, there, with the white railin’, an’ the tater patch aft o’ the place where they spreads the fish. Sure, you knows the way home.”
“I mean Lun’on, mister,” Bagg urged.
“Oh, home!” said Uncle Tommy. “When I was a lad like you, b’y, just here from the West Country, me fawther told me if I steered a course out o’ the tickle an’ kept me starn fair for the meetin’-house, I’d sure get home t’ last.”
“Which way, mister?”