“What, talk at ye twenty to the dozen?” asked Hewson feelingly.
“Not so much talk as whine at ye! Make ye believe ye’re a downright brute afore they’ve done. Till ye be forced to go and get a glass o’ beer into ye to see things straight agin.”
“Talkin’ be wuss,” said Hewson simply.
“Ah, ye ’aven’t tried whinin’,” retorted Moss. “You wait till you ’ave!”
“I bain’t likely to,” answered the other in a matter-of-fact way. “Martha she bain’t given that way. And I be glad of it, now I hear what you say. I did think—but, there, that’s neither here nor there. I don’t mind sayin’ I’ve altered my mind since I’ve ’eard what you say. I likes ’em gentle, but I likes ’em spry.”
The miller shook his head doubtfully.
“I don’t believe ye can ’ave it both ways,” he said, with a great air of wisdom. “They ’as their feelin’s when they’s soft-like, and feelin’s is a darned noosance. Ye don’t get no dinner when feelin’s is on the go.”
“I wouldn’t stomach that,” declared Hewson, shaking his head. “The smart ones they do look arter ye well, if they don’t let ye call yer soul yer own.”
“Blowed if I’d put up wi’ not bein’ master under my own roof, though,” declared the miller emphatically. “I’d rather find the kitchen fire out, by a long way, than ’ave my words snapped up when I be settin’ aside it. I can’t abide temper in a woman nor more nor in a ’oss!”
“All the same a bit o’ warm fire and a cosy ’ome do come in comfortable when a man be feelin’ a bit rocky,” urged Hewson more decisively than usual. “No dinner—that be bad! I feel sorry for ye, neighbour, I do indeed!”