how the miners' shirts were wet through and through in the struggle for gold; he told them how the little boys demanded a dollar apiece for washing these same garments; and how the miners to escape this extortion sent their linen to China in ships on Monday morning, and China sent them back on Saturday, only it was Saturday six weeks.
Next Mr. Robinson proceeded to draw a parallel between England and various nations on the other side of the Atlantic, not at all complimentary to his island home; above all, he was eloquent on the superior dignity of labor in new countries.
“I heard one of your clodhoppers say the other day, 'The squire is a good gentleman, he often gives me a day's work.' Now I should think it was the clodhopper gave the gentleman the day's work, and the gentleman gave him a shilling for it—and made five by it.”
William Fielding scratched his head. This was a new view of things to him, but there seemed to be something in it.
“Ay! rake that into your upper soil,” cried our republican orator; then collecting into one his scattered items of argument, he invited his friend George to take his muscle, pluck, wind, backbone, and self, out of this miserable country, and come where the best man has a chance to win.
“Come, George,” he cried, “England is the spot if you happen to be married to a duke's daughter, and got fifty thousand a year and three houses.
“And a coach.
“And a brougham.
“And a curricle.
“And ten brace of pointers.
“And a telescope so big the stars must move to it, instead of it to the stars.
“And no end of pretty housemaids.
“And a butler with a poultice round his neck and whiskers like a mop-head.
“And a silver tub full of rose-water to sit in and read the Morning Post.
“And a green-house full of peaches—and green peas all the year round.
“And a pew in the church warmed with biling eau de Cologne.
“And a carpet a foot thick.
“And a piano-forte in every blessed room in the house. But this island is the Dead Sea to a poor man.”
He then, diverging from the rhetorical to the metropolitan style, proposed to his friend “to open one eye. That will show you this hole you are in is all poor hungry arable ground. You know you can't work it to a profit.” (George winced.) “No! steal, borrow, or beg 500 pounds. Carry out a cargo of pea-jackets and fourpenny bits to swap for gold-dust, a few tools, a stout heart, and a light pair of—'Oh, no; we never mention them; their name is never heard'—and we'll soon fill both pockets with the shiney in California.”
All this Mr. Robinson delivered with a volubility to which Berkshire had hitherto been a stranger.
“A crust of bread in England before buffalo beef in California,” was George's reply; but it was not given in that assured tone with which he would have laughed at Robinson's eloquence a week ago.
“I could not live with all those thieves and ruffians that are settled down there like crows on a dead horse; but I thank you kindly, my lad, all the same,” said the tender-hearted young man.
“Strange,” thought he, “that so many should sing me the same tune,” and he fell back into his reverie.
Here they were all summoned to dinner, with a dash of asperity, by Sarah the stout farm servant.
Susan lingered an instant to speak to George. She chose an unfortunate topic. She warned him once more against Mr. Robinson.
“My father says that he has no business nor trade, and he is not a gentleman, in spite of his red and green cravat, so he must be a rogue of some sort.”
“Shall I tell you his greatest fault?” was the bitter reply. “He is my friend; he is the only creature that has spoken kind words to me to-day. Oh! I saw how cross you looked at him.”
Susan's eyes flashed, and the color rose in her cheek, and the water in her eyes.
“You are a fool, George,” said she; “you don't know how to read a woman, nor her looks, nor her words either.”
And Susan was very angry and disdainful, and did not speak to George all dinner-time.
As for poor George, he followed her into the house with a heart both sick and heavy.
This Berkshire farmer had a proud and sensitive nature under a homely crust.
Old Merton's words had been iron passing through his soul, and besides he felt as if everything was turning cold and slippery and gliding from his hand. He shivered with vague fears, and wished the sun would set at one o'clock and the sorrowful day come to an end.
CHAPTER II.
The meal passed almost in silence; Robinson was too hungry to say a word, and a weight hung upon George and Susan.
As they were about to rise, William observed two men in the farmyard who were strangers to him—the men seemed to be inspecting the hogs. It struck him as rather cool; but apparently the pig is an animal which to be prized needs but to be known, for all connoisseurs of him are also enthusiastic amateurs.
When I say the pig I mean the four-legged one.
William Fielding, partly from curiosity to hear these strangers' remarks, partly hoping to find customers in them, strolled into the farmyard before his companions rose from the table.
The others, looking carelessly out of the window, saw William join the two men and enter into conversation with them; but their attention was almost immediately diverted from that group by the entrance of Meadows. He came in radiant; his face was a remarkable contrast to the rest of the party.
Susan could not help noticing it.
“Why, Mr. Meadows,” cried she, “you look as bright as a May morning; it is quite refreshing to see you; we are all rather down here this morning.”
Meadows said nothing, and did not seem at his ease under this remark.
George rose from the table; so did Susan; Robinson merely pushed back his chair and gave a comfortable little sigh, but the next moment he cried “Hallo!”
They looked up, and there was William's face close against the window.
William's face was remarkably pale, and first he tried to attract George's attention without speaking, but finding himself observed by the whole party, he spoke out.
“George, will you speak a word?” said he.
George rose and went out; but Susan's curiosity was wakened, and she followed him, accompanied by Meadows.
“None
