"No, nor won't be for this half-hour," answered the boy, triumphantly; "so, if you and your friend are hungry, you'd better have some bread and marmalade. There's a pot in your drawer up-stairs. I haven't taken any, and I shouldn't have seen it if I hadn't gone to look for a steel pen; so, if you've made a mark upon the label, and think the marmalade's gone down lower, it isn't _me_. Tea won't be ready for half-an-hour; for the kitchen-fire's been smokin', and the chops can't be done till that's clear; and the kettle ain't on either; and the girl's gone to fetch a fancy loaf,--so you'll have to wait." "Oh, never mind that," Sigismund said; "come into the garden, George; I'll introduce you to Miss Sleaford." "Then _I_ shan't go with you," said the boy; "I don't care for girls' talk. I say, Mr. Gilbert, you're a Midlandshire man, and you ought to know something. What odds will you give me against Mr. Tomlinson's brown colt, Vinegar Cruet, for the Conventford steeple-chase?" Unfortunately Mr. Gilbert was lamentably ignorant of the merits or demerits of Vinegar Cruet. "I'll tell you what I'll do with you, then," the boy said; "I'll take fifteen to two against him in fourpenny-bits, and that's one less than the last Manchester quotation." George shook his head. "Horse-racing is worse than Greek to me, Master Sleaford," he said. The "Master" goaded the boy to retaliate. "Your friend don't seem to have seen much life," he said to Sigismund. "I think we shall be able to show him a thing or two before he goes back to Midlandshire, eh, Samuel?" Horace Sleaford had discovered that fatal name, Samuel, in an old prayer-book belonging to Mr. Smith; and he kept it in reserve, as a kind of poisoned dart, always ready to be hurled at his foe. "We'll teach him a little life, eh, SAMUEL?" he repeated, "Haw, haw, haw!" But his gaiety was cut suddenly short; for a door in the shadowy passage opened, and a woman's face, thin and vinegary of aspect, looked out, and a shrill voice cried: "Didn't I tell you I wanted another penn'orth of milk fetched, you young torment? But, law, you're like the rest of them, that's all! _I_ may slave my life out, and there isn't one of you will as much as lift a finger to help me." The boy disappeared upon this, grumbling sulkily; and Sigismund opened a door leading into a parlour.