“Ah, but you might have as much brass as you liked, if you’d only go the right way to work.”
“As much brass as I like. I can’t tell what you mean, mother; you must be dreaming, I think.”
“I’m not dreaming,” said Alice. “There’s Widow Reeves, she’s no better wage nor you, and yet she’s always got brass to spare for gin and baccy.”
“Widow Reeves! mother—yes, but it’s other folks’ brass, and not her own.”
“Well, but she manages to get the brass anyhow,” said her mother coolly.
“I know she does, mother, and she’s the talk of the whole village. She’s in debt to every shop for miles round, and never pays nowt to nobody.”
“Maybe she don’t,” said Alice carelessly, “but she’s always brass to spare in her pocket, and so might you.”
“I couldn’t do it,” cried Betty vehemently, “I couldn’t do it, mother. It’s a sin and a shame of Widow Reeves—she takes her brass for a bit to the last new shop as turns up, and then runs up a long score, and leaves without paying.”
“Well, that’s her concern, not mine,” said the other; “I’m not saying as it’s just right; you needn’t do as she does—but you’re not bound to pay all up at once, you might hold back a little each now and then, and you’d have summat to spare for your poor old mother.”
“But I’ve promised fayther, and he trusts me.”