"I'm poor enough, God knows!
It's hard to see rich people with their gloves, and you blowing in
your hands. An empty belly is a bitter thing, although you speak
so lightly of it. If you had had as many as I, perhaps you would
change your tune. Any way I'm a thief - make the most of that -
but I'm not a devil from hell, God strike me dead. I would have
you to know I've an honour of my own, as good as yours, though I
don't prate about it all day long, as if it was a God's miracle to
have any. It seems quite natural to me; I keep it in its box till
it's wanted. Why now, look you here, how long have I been in this
room with you? Did you not tell me you were alone in the house?
Look at your gold plate! You're strong, if you like, but you're
old and unarmed, and I have my knife. What did I want but a jerk
of the elbow and here would have been you with the cold steel in
your bowels, and there would have been me, linking in the streets,
with an armful of gold cups! Did you suppose I hadn't wit enough
to see that? And I scorned the action. There are your damned
goblets, as safe as in a church; there are you, with your heart
ticking as good as new; and here am I, ready to go out again as
poor as I came in, with my one white that you threw in my teeth!
And you think I have no sense of honour - God strike me dead!"
The old man stretched out his right arm. "I will tell you what you
are," he said.
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