“No good stopping here any longer,” said Skeggs, when he had put back his knife and tobacco into his pocket.
“No, I suppose not,” said Kester.
“I suppose you will see that everything is done right and proper by our poor dear departed?”
“Yes, I suppose there is no one to look to but me. She was my foster-mother, and very kind to me when I was a lad.”
“His foster-mother! Listen to that! His foster-mother! ha! ha!” sniggered Dirty Jack. Then laying a finger on one side his nose, and leering up at Kester with horrible familiarity, he added: “We know all about that little affair, Mr. St. George, and a very pretty romance it is.”
“Look you here, Mr. Skeggs, or whatever your dirty name may be,” said Kester, sternly, “I’d advise you to keep a civil tongue in your head or it may be worse for you. I’ve thrashed bigger men than you in my time. Be careful, or I shall thrash you.”
“I like your pluck, on my soul I do!” said Skeggs, heartily. “If you’re not genuine silver—and you know you ain’t—you’re a deuced good imitation of the real thing. Thoroughly well plated, that’s what you are. Any one would take you to be a born gentleman, they would really. Which way are you going back?”
Kester hesitated a moment. Should he quarrel with this man and set him at defiance, or should he not? Could he afford to quarrel with him? that was the question. Perhaps it would be as well to keep from doing so as long as possible.
“I’m going to walk back across the moor as far as Sedgeley,” said Kester.
“Then I’ll walk with you—though three miles is rather a big stretch to do with my game leg. I can get a gig from there that will take me home.”