“Well, you’ve a long minority,” he added as he kissed the child again. “Things’ll pull round and get straight in all these years, but I’m afraid you’ll run amuck when you’re your own master, you naughty little beggar. I don’t know though, I think you’ve got grit in you.”
Jack meditated profoundly. Then he whispered in his elder’s ears, “If I’m all that grandpa’ was mayn’t I live without mammy somewhere? Take Cuckoopint and Boo and live with ’oo?”
Brancepeth shook his head with a sigh. “No, Jack, you’ll never live with me. At least——” he paused as a certain possibility crossed his mind. “As for your mother,” he added, “well, you’ll see as much of her as she wishes, wherever you live. You won’t see more.”
Jack’s face puckered up ready for a good cry; his position did not seem to him changed in any of its essentials.
“And Cuckoopint?” he said piteously.
“They’ll sell Cuckoopint probably,” said Brancepeth. “But I’ll try and buy him and keep for you; you’re not big enough to ride him yet.”
Jack threw his arms about his friend’s throat.
“I do love ’oo, Harry. Oh, I do love ’oo!”
Brancepeth pressed the boy to him fondly; he knew the caress was chiefly for the sake of Cuckoopint. Still it was sweet to him.
“And that poor devil died with a bad word in his mouth,” he thought; and something as like remorse as any modern person can feel stirred in him.