“Ay; one o’ these up-country London ink-bottle chaps would call Geoffrey a fool.”
“Ye never find out what’s in that man: never,” said Spinks. “Close? ah, he is close! He can hold his tongue well. That man’s dumbness is wonderful to listen to.”
“There’s so much sense in it. Every moment of it is brimmen over wi’ sound understanding.”
“’A can hold his tongue very clever—very clever truly,” echoed Leaf. “’A do look at me as if ’a could see my thoughts running round like the works of a clock.”
“Well, all will agree that the man can halt well in his talk, be it a long time or be it a short time. And though we can’t expect his daughter to inherit his closeness, she may have a few dribblets from his sense.”
“And his pocket, perhaps.”
“Yes; the nine hundred pound that everybody says he’s worth; but I call it four hundred and fifty; for I never believe more than half I hear.”
“Well, he’ve made a pound or two, and I suppose the maid will have it, since there’s nobody else. But ’tis rather sharp upon her, if she’s been born to fortune, to bring her up as if not born for it, and letting her work so hard.”
“’Tis all upon his principle. A long-headed feller!”
“Ah,” murmured Spinks, “’twould be sharper upon her if she were born for fortune, and not to it! I suffer from that affliction.”