“Eh,––excuse my language, Miss Pederstone. I,––I didn’t know you were there.”
The talk stopped abruptly, as Eileen Pederstone came forward into the centre of the shop.
“Hello, Eilie, dear!” cried her father. “Dinner time already? and my work miles ahead of me, while we gossips are going at it like old wives at market. Why,––what’s the matter, lass?”
The girl’s face showed pale in the light of the forge fire and her eyes were moist.
She pulled herself together.
“Nothing, daddy! I was just feeling sorry for that poor young fellow Mr. Brenchfield was telling about.”
“Tuts!” exclaimed Todd, “don’t waste your sorrow, Eileen. Why,––he wasn’t a young fellow. He was an old, grey-haired, cross-eyed, yellow-toothed, dirty, wizened-faced, knock-kneed specimen of a jailbird escaped from Ukalla. Look up the Advertiser Thursday, you’ll see.”
“Oh no, he wasn’t; he––he,––Mr. Brenchfield–––” Eileen stopped. “Didn’t I hear you say he was a young man, Mr. Brenchfield?” she asked, endeavouring to cover up her confusion, turning her big eyes full on the Mayor.
“Why, eh––yes! I did mention something about him being young,” gallantly agreed Brenchfield.
“Did––he––get––away?” inquired Eileen desperately.