'Here's ugly old tree in the way, sir,' he observed, 'which'll be all
the better down. We can build the oven in the afternoon. There never was
such a handy spot for clay as Eden is. That's convenient, anyhow.'
But Martin gave him no answer. He had sat the whole time with his head
upon his hands, gazing at the current as it rolled swiftly by; thinking,
perhaps, how fast it moved towards the open sea, the high road to the
home he never would behold again.
Not even the vigorous strokes which Mark dealt at the tree awoke him
from his mournful meditation. Finding all his endeavours to rouse him of
no use, Mark stopped in his work and came towards him.
'Don't give in, sir,' said Mr Tapley.
'Oh, Mark,' returned his friend, 'what have I done in all my life that
has deserved this heavy fate?'
'Why, sir,' returned Mark, 'for the matter of that, everybody as is here
might say the same thing; many of 'em with better reason p'raps than
you or me. Hold up, sir. Do something. Couldn't you ease your mind, now,
don't you think, by making some personal obserwations in a letter to
Scadder?'
'No,' said Martin, shaking his head sorrowfully: 'I am past that.
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