“Ha! that’s like you. Too chicken-hearted to do any thing till I set you on, an’ mean enough to saddle it on me when ye’r nabbed.”
“Come, that’s an old story!” growled the man. “You know wot I am, and I knows wot you are. But if something’s not done, we’ll have to cut this here part o’ the country in the very thick o’ the season, when these southern sightseers are ranging about the hills.”
“That’s true!” rejoined the woman, seriously. “Many a penny the bairns get from them, an there’s no part so good as this. Ye couldn’t put him out o’ the way, could ye?”
“No,” said the man, doggedly.
The woman had accompanied her question with a sidelong glance of fiendish meaning, but her eyes at once dropped, and she evinced no anger at the sharp decision of her companion’s reply.
“Mother!” cried the young woman, issuing from the hut at the moment, “don’t you dare to go an’ tempt him again like that. Our hands are black enough already; don’t you try to make them red, else I’ll blab!”
The elder woman assumed an injured look as she said, “Who spoke of makin’ them red? Evil dreaders are evil doers. Is there no way o’ puttin’ a chick out o’ the way besides murderin’ him?”
“Hush!” exclaimed the man, starting and glancing round with a guilty look, as if he fancied the bare mention of the word “murder” would bring the strong arm of the law down on his head.
“I won’t hush!” cried the woman. “You’re cowards, both of you. Are there no corries in the hills to hide him in—no ropes to tie him with—that you should find it so difficult to keep a brat quiet for a week or two?”
A gleam of intelligence shot across the ill-favoured face of the gypsy.