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Festus Clasby turned about to Mac-an-Ward, and as he did so he noticed that two men had come and set their backs against a wall hard by; they leaned limply, casually, against it, but they were, he noticed, of the same tribe as the Mac-an-Wards. "It was always lucky, the Can with the Diamond Notch," said the woman. "This offer of the man in the big shop is a sign of it.
The diamond notch on the handle, the brother who was sick of the fever, the alleged non-title of Mac-an-Ward, the interposition of the woman, the cans with the handles which fall out, and the cans with the handles which do not fall out, the equity of selling that which does not belong to you all these things chased each other across Festus Clasby's mind.
"She is the last, but the flower of the flock." "Remnants must go as bargains or else remain as remnants." "My wallet!" protested Mac-an-Ward, "you wound me. Don't speak as if I picked it off a scrap heap." "I will not, but I will say that, being a tail end and an odd one, it must go at a sacrifice." The Son of the Bard tapped the side of the can gently with his knuckles.
"Let the woman earn her shilling," said Mac-an-Ward. His voice came from behind Festus Clasby. "Our mother must get her shilling," cried the three youngsters.
Mac-an-Ward hitched his trousers at the hips like a sailor, spat through his teeth, end eyed Festus Clasby through a slit in his half-closed eyes. There was a little patter of the feet on the road on the part of Mac-an-Ward, and Festus Clasby knew enough of the world and its ways to gather that these were scientific movements invented to throw a man in a struggle.
He has never given his time to the art, and so does not know how to rivet them." "She vilifies me," said Mac-an-Ward, sotto voce. "Then I am glad he has not sold me one of his own," said Festus Clasby. "I have a fancy for the lasting article." "You may be able to buy it yet," said the woman.
At the same moment the spare figure of a tinker whose name was Mac-an-Ward, the Son of the Bard, veered around the corner of a street with a new tin can under his arm. It was the Can with the Diamond Notch. Mac-an-Ward approached Festus Clasby, who pulled up his cart.
The two men who stood by came over, and from the other side another man and three old women. With Mac-an-Ward, Mrs. Mac-an-Ward, and the three young Mac-an-Wards, they grouped themselves around Festus Clasby, and he was vaguely conscious that they were grouped with some military art. A low murmur of a dispute arose among them, rising steadily.
Festus Clasby held up the can between his handsome face and the bright sky. "Leakages!" exclaimed Mac-an-Ward. "A leakage in a can that I soldered as if with my own heart's blood. Holy Kilcock, what a mind has this man from the country! He sees no value in its brightness; now he will tell me that there is no virtue in its music." "I like music," said Festus Clasby.
Festus Clasby, the dispute stirring something in his own blood, shook his fist in the long narrow face of Mac-an-Ward. As he did so he got a tip on the heels and a pressure upon the chest sent him staggering a few steps back. One of the old women held him up in her arms and another old woman stood before him, striking her breast.
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