“You shut up!” roared William, giving his parent a very forcible dig in the ribs. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, you don’t.—The old ’un is a bit queer in the head, master,” he explained; “and he’s allus a dreamin’, he is. There ain’t no prizes here, the Lord knows; it’s a’most as much as we can do to git a bit o’ bread. Matt knows that; don’t ee’, Matt?”
But whatever Matt knew she evidently meant to keep to herself, for she gave no reply. Presently, after a little more general conversation, Brinkley rose to go. He offered a two-shilling piece to William Jones; and somewhat to his amazement, that worthy accepted it gratefully.
“Good-bye, Matt,” said Brinkley. But in a trice Matt was beside him.
“I’m going to show you the way,” she explained as she went out with him into the air.
“Whew!” said Brinkley when they were fairly clear of the cabin; “the open air is better than that den; but then William Jones is very poor, isn’t he, Matt?”
“He says he is.”
“But don’t you believe it?”
“P’raps I do, and p’raps I don’t; it don’t matter to you, does it?”
“Not the least in the world.”
They went on for a while in silence; then Matt, who had been furtively watching his face all the while, spoke again.