Halloa, Ben!" cried he, shaking a broad-backed fellow, equipped in a short-skirted doublet, and having a badge upon his arm,—"scullers wanted. We were alike. "I feel like work," he lied. It’s the poor dears who do, who know they will, know they can’t keep it up, who need to clutch at way-side flowers. He was keen to get to work, but the inspiration would not come. Me—I’m nothing but a country wench, and one who went to the bad. She frowned and gripped her hands about her knees very tightly.
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