“Birds aren’t good eatin’ on fust of July,” she observed, as she handed the milk. The woman paid the halfpenny and hurried away with the milk.
“I think that woman is very poor,” said Bertie, questioningly and solemnly.
The old dame chuckled.
“No doubts o’ that, master.”
“Then you are cruel to take her money: you should have given her the milk.”
“Ho, ho, little sir! be you a parson in a gownd? I’m mappen poor as she, and she hiv desarved all she gits, for her man he were a poacher, and he died in jail last Jannivery.”
“A poacher!” said Bertie, with the natural instinctive horror of a landed gentleman. “And her son was going to snare a bird!” he cried, with light breaking in on him; “and you would give them things in exchange for the bird! Oh, what a very cruel, what a very wicked woman you are!”
For an answer she shied at him a round wooden trencher, which missed its aim and struck a basket of eggs and smashed them, and one of the panes of her shop-window as well.
Bertie got up and walked slowly out of the door, keeping his eyes upon her.
“When I see a magistrate, I shall tell him about you,” he said, solemnly: “you tempt poor people: that is very dreadful.”