swear?' said she, turning to the rider.
'No,' answered Ki; 'now that I am here, I am at your service to do for you what I can.'
He dismounted and attached his horse by the bridle to the back of the van, then took one of his lanterns, and went to where he heard Zita speaking to her father.
'I be bad, Zit—bad—tremenjous. I be done for,' said the Cheap Jack. 'It's no good saying "Get along." I can't; there's the fact. I be stuck—just as the van be. I seems to have no wish but to be let alone and die slick off.'
'You shall not do that, father. Here is one of the gentlemen as bought the flails of us. He will help.'
Then Drownlands came to the side of the sick man and inquired, 'What is it? What can I do for you?'
'I don't know as I want nort,' answered the Cheap Jack; 'nort but to be let alone to die. Don't go and worrit me, that's all.'
'My farm is not a mile distant,' said Ki. 'Get into the waggon and drive along.'
'I can't abear the joggle,' answered the Cheap Jack. 'I wants to go nowhere. But whatever will become of Jewel and Zit?'
He groaned, sighed, and turned over on the bank towards the scanty grass and short moss that covered the marl, and laid his face in that. The girl held his hand, and knelt by him. Presently he raised his head and said, 'Arter all, Zit, we did a fine business, what wi' the tea and what wi' the flails. Them as didn't cost us eighteenpence sold for one pun' thirteen and six—tremenjous!'
'Now listen to me,' said Drownlands. 'This horse of yours will never be able to get the van along. I will ride home and fetch a team, and we'll have the whole bag of tricks conveyed to Prickwillow in a jiffy. I'll bring help, and we'll lift you on to a feather tye.'
'You will not play me false?' asked Zita.
'Not I,' answered Ki, as he picked up the second flail; 'trust me. I shall be back in half an hour.'
He mounted his horse and rode away. The girl watched him as he departed with some anxiety; then, as he departed into the darkness, Zita seated herself on the bank, and endeavoured to raise her father, that his head might repose on her bosom. He looked at her and put his arm about her neck.
'You've been a good gal,' said he. 'You've done your dooty to the wan and the 'oss and me, and I bless you for it. That there tea as we made out o' sweepins as we bought at London Docks, and out o' blackthorn leaves as we picked off the hedges and dried on the top of the wan—'twas a fine notion, that. Go on as I've taught you, Zit, and you'll make a Cheap Jack o' the right sort. One pun' thirteen and six for them flails! That's about one pun' twelve profits. What's us sent into the world for but to make profits? I've done my dooty in it. I've made profits. I feel a sort o' in'ard glow, just as if I wos a lantern wi' a candle in me, when I thinks on it. One pun' twelve—I say, Zit, what's that per cent.? I can't calkerlate it now; it's gone from me. One pun' twelve is thirty-two. And thirty-two to one and an 'arf'—He heaved a long sigh. 'I be bad—I can't calkerlate no more.'
Zita leaned over the sick man's face, and with the corner of her gaily figured and coloured kerchief wiped his brow. His mind was wandering. From silence and impatience of being spoken to and having to exert himself to speak, he had come to talk, and talk much, in rambling strains.
'Father, I've brought you some brandy from the van. Take a drop. It may revive you.'
She put a flask to his lips. He found a difficulty in swallowing, and turned his face away. He had raised his head to the flask with an effort; it sank back on his daughter's bosom.
'Dad, how wet your hair is!'
'Things ain't as they ort to be,' said the Cheap Jack sententiously. 'I've often turned the world over in my head and seed as the wrong side comes uppermost. Then I'm sure I was ordained to be a mimber o' parliament, but I never got a chance to rise to it. How I could ha' talked the electors over into believin' as black was white! How I could ha' made 'em a'most swallow anything and believe it was apricot jam! I could ha' told 'em lies enough to carry me to the top o' the poll by a thumping majority. It's lies does it, all the world over—leastways with the general public in England. It's lies sells damaged goods. It's lies as makes 'em turn their pockets out into your lap. It's lies as carries votes. It's lies as governs the land. The general public likes 'em. It loves 'em. They be as sweet and dear to the general public as thistles is to asses.'
Then he lay quiet, except only that he turned his head from side to side, as though looking at something.
'What is it, dad?'
'I thinks as I sees 'em—miles and miles, going right away into nothing at all.'
'What, father?'
'The hawthorn hedges in full bloom, white as snow—it's our own tea plantation, Zit, you know—touched up wi' sweepins. When the flowers fall, then the leaves will come, and there'll be profits. Assam, Congou, Kaisow, Darjeeling, Souchong—just what you like—and, in truth, hawthorn leaves and sweepins—all alike. There's profits—profits comin' in the leaves, Zit.'
A light sleet was falling, and it gleamed in the radiance of the lantern planted on the bank near the dying man's head.
'So you see, Zit,' he said, pointing into space, 'the thorn leaves be fallin'—scores o' thousands—and the green leaves will come and bring profits.'
'What you see is snow that is coming down, father.'
'No, Zit. It's the thorns sheddin' their white flowers to grow profits. Fall, fall, fall away, white leaves.'
He remained silent for a while, and then began to pluck at his daughter with the hand that clasped her waist.
'What is it, father?'
'I ain't easy.'
'Shall I lift your head higher?'
' 'Tain't that. It's in my mind, Zit.'
'What troubles you, dad?'
'That tin kettle wi' the hole in it. I've never stopped it. Put a bit o' cobbler's wax into the hole and some silverin' stuff over it, and you'll sell it quick off. Nobody won't find out till they comes to bile water in it.'
'I'll do that, father. Hush! I hear the horses coming.'
'I don't want to go wi' them. I hears singing.'
'It is the wind whistling.'
'No, Zit. It be the quiristers chanting in Ely. Do you hear their psalm?'
'No, we cannot hear them. They do not sing at night, and are also too distant.'
'But I does hear 'em singing beautiful, and this is the psalm they sing—"One pun' twelve—and hawthorn tea at four shillin'. There's profits."'
He was sinking. He weighed heavy on her bosom.
She stooped to his ear and whispered, 'Are you happy, father?'
'Happy? In course I be. One pun' twelve on them flails, and four shillin' on thorn leaves and sweepins—there's profits—profits—tremenjous!'
And he spoke no more.
