I must
have half of that 15 pounds 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 pounds 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?"
"Yes, sir."
"Would you know what to do with sixpence if I gave it you? You'd
put it in the missionary box, wouldn't you?"
Keziah thinks, but does not reply. It is a problem of immense
importance. Uncle turns to Bill, so that Keziah cannot see him,
puts up his left hand to the side of his face and winks violently.
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