The boy muttered confusedly.
“Only things.”
The questioner looked down at him—the huge, unwieldy figure, in size a man’s, in right of his childlike features and curling hair a child’s; and it hurt him—it attracted him and it hurt him. It was something between pity and sympathy.
“How long have you worked at this?”
“Nine months.”
From his pocket the stranger drew his pocket-book, and took something from it. He could fasten the post to his horse in some way, and throw it away in the sand when at a safe distance.
“Will you take this for your carving?”
The boy glanced at the five-pound note and shook his head.
“No; I cannot.”
“You think it is worth more?” asked the stranger with a little sneer.