An' I
went to work at heavy toil, sor, as became a poor man. As God's me
judge I felt a pride in rags an' the horny hand.'"
The tinker paused a moment in which all the pendulums seemed to
quicken pace, tick lapping upon tick, as if trying to get ahead of
each other.
"Think of it, boy," Darrel continued. "A pride in rags an'
poverty. Bring that into thy book an' let thy best thinking bear
upon it. Show us how patch an' tatter were for the poor man as
badges of honour an' success.
"'I thought to burn the money,' me host went on. 'But no, that
would have robbed me o' one great possibility--that o' restoring
it. Some time, when they were dead, maybe, an' I could suffer
alone, I would restore it, or, at least, I might see a way to turn
it into good works. So I could not be quit o' the money. Day an'
night these slow an' heavy years it has been me companion, cursing
an' accusing me.
"'I lie here o' nights thinking. In that heap o' money I seem to
hear the sighs an' sobs o' the poor people that toiled to earn it.
I feel their sweat upon me, an' God! this heart o' mine is crowded
to bursting with the despair o' hundreds. An', betimes, I hear the
cry o' murder in the cursed heap as if there were some had blood
upon it.
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