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The old man sighed and waited. "I'm quite cleaned out, though," continued the deserter, "except fi'pence ha'penny. I shall have to risk going home in my uniform as it is."
"And so it is widow," said a little pale man, wistfully. "Come, come, it's getting late, and your wife's ill; you're a good soul, we'll say fi'pence a pound, and I'll throw you the scrag end in for love." "No butcher's meat to-morrow for us, widow," said the man. "And why not, neighbour? With your wages, you ought to live like a prize-fighter, or the mayor of Mowbray at least."
"The canon how is he?" "Fine as fi'pence. Guid as ever in the pulpit? Aye, but it's a pity he doesna' bide there, for he's naething to be windy of when he comes out of it. Deacon now, bless ye, or archdeacon, and some sic botherment, and his daughter is to be married to yon slip of a curate with the rabbit mouth and the heather legs. Weel, she wasna for all markets, ye ken." "And Mrs. Macrae?"
I've heard they keep their whole establishment on factory fines." "Soul alive, but those Shuffle and Screw are rotten, snickey, bad yarns," said Mistress Carey. "Now ma'am, if you please; fi'pence ha'penny; no, ma'am, we've no weal left. Weal, indeed! you look very like a soul as feeds on weal," continued Mrs Carey in an under tone as her declining customer moved away.
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