Mary Ann laughed her resounding laugh.
“Don’t want no chaff, I suppose?” roared she. “I’ll think about it. If Jenny ain’t goin’ to ’ave ’im, there’s no call to tell. But Jenny’s my pal, and I’ll not promise.”
“If ye don’t I’ll scratch ye,” screamed the woman.
But Miss Mitcham had eluded her and escaped to the group beside the water-budge, where there was more fun.
Meanwhile the man, shuffling in the dust, had caught up Jenny on the road. He had a slow, weary sort of gait, and was evidently not of the soil any more than the rest. In their different ways they all had an air of city slums about them in spite of their tanned faces and hands torn by ragged bines and rough hop-poles.
“What are ye goin’ to buy for supper to-night?” said he, after they had tramped along a little way without a word. “The bacon ain’t p’tickler good in this ’ere village, are it?”
He had a slow speech, but not unmusical, and the expression of his face, though of the contemplative order, was frank and friendly, and suggested none of the discontent that his words might have implied.
“No,” answered she. “But I ain’t goin’ to buy no supper to-night. I’ll get a drink o’ milk from the farm presently. I ain’t ’ungry.”
“Ye can’t work if ye don’t eat,” said he, and then added shyly: “’Aven’t ye got no money?”
She flushed a quick red, and he hastened to say apologetically: “Girls are apt to send it all ’ome, I know.”