130 THE LAND OF PLUCK

“Tt ’s too cold and damp for you in here, I ’m sure.”

« Ah yes, it is, dearie dear,—ough, ough!—cold and wet
enough !”

“This old rusty stove would be nice if you had a fire in
it, Goody.”

“Oh, the stove, dearie! The good gentleman in the
shop put it in here for me last winter. He’s kept me in
meat-seraps, too. Oh,—oh,—oh! (it catches me that way
often, child). But, alack! I have n’t a chip nor a shaving
to make a bit of fire. Oh! oh! (the worst ’s in this shoul-
der, dearie, and ’cross the back and into this ’ere knee).
Yes, cold and wet enough, so it is. Aouch! No use s’arch-
ing out there; you won't find nothing. Not a waste splin-
ter of wood left, I’ll be bound, after my raking and scrap-
ing till I was too sick to stand up.”

“T do wish I had money to buy you some, Goody,” said
Wisk. “I sha’n’t have another silver-piece till my next
birthday, but you shall have that, I promise you.”

“ Blessings on you for saying it, dearie; but old Katy
is n’t going to last till then. What with cold and hunger
(the meat on the nail there ’s no use, you see, if I can’t
cook it), and this ere —ough —ah !—this ’ere dreadful
rheumatiz, I can’t hold out much longer.”

Suddenly a thought came to Wisk.

“Oh, Katy!” she exclaimed, and off she ran, past the
cattle-sheds, the skin-heaps, the pigsties, the dog-kennel,
up the alley, up the street, and round the corner toward the
river till she came to the workshop of a ship-carpenter.

“Tom,” she said, hurrying in, quite out, of breath, and
addressing a great strong boy who was working there,
“won't you give me some shavings and chips ?”