“I can’t do it under fifteen,” was the reply.
“Eleven—twelve—thirteen,” counted Cyril, in a voice of despair. “That is my last piastre. We must look for some one else.”
“No, I’ll do it for that, since you are on pilgrimage,” cried the old man, as the would-be passengers turned away. “But you must lend a hand with the oars, and I can’t put you ashore at the bridge-end, for there is a danger of smashing the boat against the piers. You must land higher up.”
“That’s all right. Our road runs alongside the river for some distance,” returned Cyril. “Are you starting now, or is there time to buy some food?”
“Do you expect me to waste an hour while you go shopping, young man? Get on board at once, or lose your money. You have something left then, have you?”
“Only a few paras.” The para is about the twenty-fifth part of the piastre. “You don’t want to take our last copper?”
“No; but I would have sold you some bread if I hadn’t eaten all I brought with me, and I would have given you more for your money than you would get in any of the town shops.”
“You are not such a bad hand at a bargain yourself,” said Cyril morosely, as he helped the women on board, and the host began to loosen the rope by which the boat was moored.
“I shouldn’t do much business if I was,” was the dry answer. “Now what are those fellows shouting about? I knew they would come and interfere as soon as an honest man who has done no business all day tries to get home.”
The persons alluded to were three or four of the soldiers from the bridge, who came rushing down to the bank when they saw the preparations for the departure of the boat.