Fitchew looks on the ground, and gives his head a shake on one side as if he were mortified beyond measure.
“I know it, Mr. Lovell, nobody can be more vexed than I am, but I can’t get nothing out of the farmers. Last year was an awful year for them.”
Uncle tries with all his might to look severe, but does not succeed.
“You’ve told me that tale every time I’ve called for twenty years past: now mind, I’m not going to be humbugged any longer. I must have half of that £15 this month, or not another ounce of smithery coal do you get out of me. You may try Warden if you like, and maybe he’ll treat you better than I do.”
“Mr. Lovell, £10 you shall have next Saturday fortnight as sure as my name’s Bill Fitchew.”
A little girl, about eight years old, who was hurried into her white, Sunday frock with red ribbons, as soon as her mother saw my uncle at the gate, runs up towards him according to secret instructions, but stops short by about a yard, puts her forefinger on her lip and looks at him.
“Hullo, my pretty dear, what’s your name? Dear, what’s your name?”
“Say Keziah Fitchew, sir,” prompts Mrs. Fitchew, appearing suddenly at the side door as if she had come to fetch her child who had run out unawares.
After much hesitation: “Keziah Fitchew, sir.”
“Are you a good little girl? Do you say your prayers every morning and every evening?”