“Half? A bare sixteenth! It wasn’t until afternoon—until we reached the church at the cross-roads—that I really came into full possession—” The sentence trailed off into an inexplicable grin.
“And after that, ’twas I played the fool.” Patsy’s eyes kindled.
The tinker grew serious; he dug his hands deep into his capacious white flannels as if he were very much in earnest. “Can’t you understand? If I hadn’t played foolish you would never have let me wander with you—you just said so. I knew that, and I was selfish, lonely—and I didn’t want to give you up. You can’t blame me. When a man meets with genuine comradeship for the first time in his life—the kind he has always wanted, but has grown to believe doesn’t exist—he’s bound to win a crumb of it for himself, it costs no more than a trick of foolishness. Surely you understand?”
“Oh, I understand! I’m understanding more and more every minute—’tis the gift of your tongue, I’m thinking—and I’m wondering which of us will be finding it the pleasantest.” She flashed a look of unutterable scorn upon him. “If ye were not half-witted, would ye mind telling me how we came to be taking the wrong road at the church?”
The tinker choked.
“Aye, I thought so. Ye lied to me.”
“No, not exactly; you see—” he floundered helplessly.
“Faith! don’t send a lie to mend a lie; ’tis poor business, I can promise ye.”
“Well,”—the tinker’s tone grew dogged—“was it such a heinous sin, after all, to want to keep you with me a little longer?”
The fire in Patsy’s eyes leaped forth at last. “Sin, did ye say? Faith! ’tis the wrong name ye’ve given it entirely. ’Twas amusement, ye meant; the fun of trading on a girl’s ignorance and simple-heartedness; the trick of getting the good makings of a tale to tell afterward to other fine gentlemen like yourself.”