“Where are ye off to so glum, Jenny?” said she. “Come and ’ave a bit of a lark. ’Ere’s your beau a-comin’ across the field.”
The girl didn’t stop.
“’E ain’t no beau o’ mine, nor I don’t want him to be,” said she, and walked on quickly up the road.
“Oh, Lord no, o’ course not,” called out the other after her. “Ye don’t mind ’im lookin’ arter ye all the ’opping-time, though! But I’m sure I don’t want to take ’im from ye if ’e means business. ’E ain’t no beauty!”
The man lounging across the stubble-field stopped; he was still within ear-shot, as the girl knew. Jenny faced round on her.
“Ye’ll, please, not to say that again, Mary Ann Mitcham,” said she stiffly. “I’ve told ye Mr. Martin ain’t no beau o’ mine, and that’s all about it.” And she strode on again beside the hedge.
The other laughed as she swung herself over the gate and ran off across the field; and she laughed again when she met the man and he gave her no greeting, but passed her by with a sullen expression on his face. She was used to calling that expression on to folk’s faces, and rather enjoyed it than otherwise. She called it up again on the face of a slatternly woman who stood at the door of one of the straw huts further on with a fretful baby in her arms.
“Have ye seen Jenny anywheres, Mary Ann, my dear?” asked the woman. “I want ’er to come and ’old this child a bit for me.”
“So as you may step up to the ‘Public’ for your supper, eh, Mrs. Barnes,” laughed the girl as she ran. “Jenny’s always too good-natured, mindin’ yer squallin’ brats for ye. One’d think ye was ’er mother instead of only a neighbour. But she’s somethin’ better to do to-night: she’s a-courtin’.”
“Ye’re a rude minx, and I don’t believe it,” answered the woman tartly. “Why, Jenny never ’as no word to say for a man. And she’d nurse a child all day and think it a treat. Ye can’t give Jenny’s beau a name.”