"Hout, man! pay eight shillings for a line," said the economical Peter, "and a pound of horsehair will make six. I'll send Louise for the bait, and you come along with me—we'll soon reckon out the plait."
Mesurier, a thick-set, vigorous-looking man, shorter than Peter, stood still a moment, looking at him rather queerly out of his keen, grey eyes.
"Been up to Jean's much of late?" he asked, trudging on again.
"No, not I," said Peter. "Hangin' round in the village isn't much after my mind."
"Best send Louise instead, hey?"
Peter wheeled his huge frame round in a moment.
"What do you mean, man?" he demanded, in a voice that seemed to come from his feet.
Mesurier's face was devoid of expression, as he replied, "Nothing, to be sure. Of course Louise will be going to the shop now and again."
Peter laid his hand, like a lion's paw, on Mesurier's shoulder, as if he would rend the truth out of him.
"And what's the matter with her going to the shop?" said Peter, so rapidly and thickly as to be hardly articulate.