“William Jones,” said she, “here be the painter!”
By the light of the flickering rushlight Brinkley now looked about him. At a glance he noted some of the details of the queer little room, then his eye fell upon the occupants, whom, from Matt’s description, he recognized as William Jones and the grizzly author of his being.
The old man, who Brinkley perforce admitted certainly bore some resemblance to the Rembrandtish head which Matt had recognized, sat dozing fitfully by the hearth, while his son was busily employed in mending an old lantern.
Upon the entrance of Brinkley, the lantern was quickly thrown aside, and William Jones, assuming a most obsequious manner, hastened to give a welcome to the stranger. Brinkley was amused. He accepted William Jones’s offer of a seat, then he lit up his briar-root pipe, and while smoking lazily, he put a few questions to his host. But if he expected to gain information of any kind he was soon undeceived. William Jones was no fool. Combined with excessive avarice, he possessed all the cunning of the fox, and the moment he saw that the stranger was pumping him, he was on his guard.
Presently, however, his curiosity gained the day. Categorically, in his turn, he began to question Brinkley about his doings.
“I suppose now, master,” said he, “you travel about a deal i’ that cart o’ your’n?”
Brinkley explained that the “cart” in question had been in his possession only a few months.
“But I travelled a good deal before I got it,” he explained. “This time last year I was in Ireland.”
“In Ireland, master?”
“Yes, on the west coast; do you know it?”