Afterward he sawed and split the apportioned wood which was to pay for Patsy’s lodging, and went to sleep on the hay in a state of complete exhaustion. But, for all that, Patsy was wakened an hour before sun-up by a shower of pebbles on the tin roof of the porch, just under her window. Looking out, she spied him below, a silencing finger against his lips, while he waved a beckoning arm toward the road. Patsy dressed and slipped out without a sound.
“What has happened ye?” she whispered, anxiously, looking him well over for some symptoms of sickness or trouble.
His only reply was a mysterious shake of the head as he led the way down the village street, his rags flapping grotesquely in the dawn wind.
There was nothing for Patsy to do except to follow as fast as she could after his long, swinging strides. Lebanon still slept, close-wrapped in its peaceful respectability; even the dogs failed to give them a speeding bark. They stole away as silently as shadows, and as shadows went forth upon the open road to meet the coming day.
A mile beyond the township stone the tinker stopped to let Patsy catch up with him; it was a very breathless, disgruntled Patsy.
“Now, by Saint Brendan, what ails ye, lad, to be waking a body up at this time of day? Do ye think it’s good morals or good manners to be trailing us off on a bare stomach like this—as if a county full of constables was at our heels? What’s the meaning of it? And what will the good folk who cared for us the night think to find us gone with never a word of thanks or explanation?”
The tinker scratched his chin meditatively; it was marked by a day’s more growth than on the previous morning, which did not enhance his comeliness or lessen his state of vagabondage. There was something about his appearance that made him out less a fool and more an uncouth rascal; one might easily have trusted him as well as pitied him yesterday—but to-day—Patsy’s gaze was critical and not over-flattering.
He saw her look and met it, eye for eye, only he still fumbled his chin ineffectually. “Have you forgot?” he asked, a bit sheepishly. “There were the lady’s-slippers; you said as how you cared about findin’ ’em; and they’re not near so pretty an’ bright if they’re left standin’ too long after the dew dries.”
Patsy pulled a wry little smile. “Is that so? And ye’ve been after making me trade a feather-bed and a good breakfast for—for the best color of lady’s-slippers. Well, if I was Dan instead of myself, standing here, I’d be likely to tell ye to go to the devil—aye, an’ help ye there with my two fists.” Her cheeks were flushed and all the comradeship faded quickly from her eyes.
The tinker said never a word, only his lips parted in a coaxing smile which seemed to say, “Please go on believing in me,” and his eyes still held hers unwaveringly.