But some one in the background wanted to have his word too, and called out cheerily:
“So now ye ’ave come back to look arter the young ’ooman yourself, eh? I call it real ’ansome of ye, Charley, on’y it’s a bit late.”
There was a murmur of “Hush!” all round, but the speaker, who seemed to have had a drop too much, would not be silenced.
“Preston ’ere’s the one to tell ye most obout ’er,” laughed he. “’E ’ad the last buss. That old rascal up at the Farm’d ’ave made ’er wed ’im, but ’e can thank ’is stars ’e’s well out o’ that.”
Folk surrounded the mischievous talker, and argued with him, and Preston accosted young Chiswick.
“Don’t ye believe a word of it,” said he in an undertone. “Your girl wouldn’t ’ave none o’ me. She told me so flat. And I guess that’s why she runned away.”
“Thank ye,” said Charley huskily, holding out his hand which the other grasped.
“I’d never ’ave asked ’er if I’d ha’ known the rights of it,” added the young farmer, “but I live over t’other side o’ the county, and I hadn’t heard no talk then. But she were true to ye, and if she’d ’ave ’ad a sight o’ that letter....”
“Ay,” said the lad eagerly, “that was my letter ... what of it?”
“Why, t’ old villain burned it afore ’er very eyes, and she not read a word of it,” said Preston.