Festus Clasby looked at the Son of the Bard with his velvety soft eyes. "Come, sir," said he, his tone a little nervous. "My money!"
Mac-an-Ward hitched his trousers at the hips like a sailor, spat through his teeth, end eyed Festus Clasby through a slit in his half-closed eyes. There was a little patter of the feet on the road on the part of Mac-an-Ward, and Festus Clasby knew enough of the world and its ways to gather that these were scientific movements invented to throw a man in a struggle. He did not like the look of the Son of the Bard.
"I will go home and leave him to God," he said. "Hand me the can and I will be shortening my road."
At this moment three small boys, ragged, eager, their faces hard and weather-beaten, bounded up to the cart. They were breathless as they stood about the woman.
"Mother!" they cried in chorus. "The man in the big shop! He is looking for a can."
"What can?" cried the woman.
The three young voices rose like a great cry: "The Can with the Diamond Notch."
The woman caught her face in her hands as if some terrible thing had been said. She stared at the youngsters intently.
"He wants one more to make up an order," they chanted. "He says he will pay—"
The woman shrank from them with a cry. "How much?" she asked.