The pedlar and his dog . k-a-thumb from his cradle. If Master Bads-worth had only served his son to a tithe of thestern strictness with which he had treated every-one else he had dealings with, Tom would notbe for him the thorn in the flesh he was now;and if there was a shred of pity for either, it wasfor the scapegrace himself. So those people who insisted on making com-parisons, though they were for ever being toldsuch things are odious, would point to youngEdward Coke, and say there, if you like, wasson for widowed mother to be proud of, takehim which way you pleased. Personally,though that
The pedlar and his dog . k-a-thumb from his cradle. If Master Bads-worth had only served his son to a tithe of thestern strictness with which he had treated every-one else he had dealings with, Tom would notbe for him the thorn in the flesh he was now;and if there was a shred of pity for either, it wasfor the scapegrace himself. So those people who insisted on making com-parisons, though they were for ever being toldsuch things are odious, would point to youngEdward Coke, and say there, if you like, wasson for widowed mother to be proud of, takehim which way you pleased. Personally,though that may be setting the cart before thehorse, and beauty is vain, still he was a fine,handsome young man, Edward Coke, with hiskeen, brilliant, greyish-blue eyes, well-formedbrow, and firm, rather thinnish, but beautifullips. Then his tall, slender figure was lithe andwell-knit, and if a trifle bending already aboutthe shoulders, that was small enough marvel,when you knew the hours on hours he spentover his books at WHILE HE ATE HE SURVEYED THE SCENE Page 2g CASTLE ACRE 49 College days are, however, over for him now,and he lives in London, a student of the InnerTemple, coming home to Mileham only whenhe can spare a few days. He is not sorry theapproach of Christmas once more affords hima good spell of leisure in the old home, andmakes him feel once again like the grammar-school boy he used to be. The old Hall is fullof guests; but whenever the young master canabsent himself, away he is at Swaffham andCastle Acre. All this January afternoon, bleak,bitter, snowy one though it is, he has been atCastle Acre, and is making a roundabout wayhome by Swaffham. Arrived at the top of the main street, hecomes to a halt, tempted, no doubt, by theruddy glow of firelight dancing on the panesof John Pennycuicks window, through whosebottle-green panes one can see the curious bigshadows of the pedlar and his dog darting up,and fading down, and darting up afresh, as thetwo sit nodding drows
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