on a disagreeable mission. Festus Clasby called to her and she came
back, her eyes pained as they sought his face. Festus Clasby paid the
money, a bright shilling and two threepenny bits, into her hand,
wondering vaguely, but virtuously, as he did so, what hardy little dark
mountainy man he would later charge up the can to at the double price.

"Now," said the wife of Mac-an-Ward, putting the money away, "you have
paid me for my brother's can and you would be within your right in
getting back your one-and-six from this bad man." She hitched her shawl
contemptuously in the direction of Mac-an-Ward.

Festus Clasby looked at the Son of the Bard with his velvety soft eyes.
"Come, sir," said he, his tone a little nervous. "My money!"

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 did not like the look of the Son of the Bard.

"I will go home and leave him to God," he said. "Hand me the can and I
will be shortening my road."

At this moment three small boys, ragged, eager, their faces hard and
weather-beaten, bounded up to the cart. They were breathless as they
stood about the woman.

"Mother!" they cried in chorus. "The man in the big shop! He is looking
for a can."