"Go, child—go, go !"
"Yes, child,—yes, yes," said the boy, with which roguish parody, by way of congé, he scraped back his hard foot on the woven flowers of the carpet, much as a mischievous steer in May scrapes back his horny hoof in the pasture; and then with a flourish of his hat—which, like the rest of his tatters, was, thanks to hard times, a belonging beyond his years, though not beyond his experience, being a grown man's cast-off beaver—turned, and with the air of a young Caffre, quitted the place.
"That's a strange boy," said the old man, looking after him. "I wonder who's his mother; and whether she knows what late hours he keeps?"
"The probability is," observed the other, "that his mother does not know. But if you remember, sir, you were saying something, when the boy interrupted you with his door."
"So I was.—Let me see," unmindful of his purchases for the moment, "what, now, was it? What was that I was saying? Do you remember?"
"Not perfectly, sir; but, if I am not mistaken, it was something like this: you hoped you did not distrust the creature; for that would imply distrust of the Creator."
"Yes, that was something like it," mechanically and unintelligently letting his eye fall now on his purchases.
"Pray, will you put your money in your belt tonight?"
"It's best, ain't it?" with a slight start. "Never
