“Tha ’rt jealous o’ Susan’s legs,” barked out a sharp voice from a corner by the fire.
The room had a flagged floor, clean with recent scrubbing with sandstone; the whitewashed walls were decorated with pictures cut from illustrated papers; there was a big fireplace, and by it was a hard-looking sofa covered with blue-and-white checked cotton stuff. A boy of about ten was lying on it, propped up with a pillow. He had a big head and a keen, ferret-eyed face, and just now was looking round the end of his sofa at the visitors.
“Howd tha tongue, Tummas!” said his mother.
“I wun not howd it,” Tummas answered. “Ma tongue’s the on’y thing about me as works right, an’ I’m noan goin’ to stop it.”
“He’s a young nowt,” his mother explained; “but he’s a cripple, an’ we conna do owt wi’ him.”
“Do not be rude, Thomas,” said Miss Alicia, with dignity.
“Dun not be rude thysen,” replied Tummas. “I’m noan o’ thy lad.”
Tembarom walked over to the sofa.
“Say,” he began with jocular intent, “you’ve got a grouch on, ain’t you?”
Tummas turned on him eyes which bored. An analytical observer or a painter might have seen that he had a burning curiousness of look, a sort of investigatory fever of expression.