“Well, measter John,” said he, “it be’s a poor heart as never rejoices, and now we be free from them chaps who drop in at times when mebbe they’re not wanted, we’ll enjoy ourselves in our own humble way.”
The glasses were filled and Jamblin held his own up in the air and looked at the bright liquor it contained.
“I will gi’ ’ee a toast,” said he. “Here’s everybody in the world’s good health, ’cept farmer Nettlethorpe.”
They both drank the toast, after which John Ashbrook burst out into a loud laugh.
“Poor Nettlethorpe!” he exclaimed.
“Poor, indeed,” returned Jamblin. “I’ll tell ’ee why I don’t drink his good health. It is because I want farmer Nettlethorpe to die. He’s a puddin’ mean man, and tries to make his land as thin and poor as his cattle, and his cattle as poor and thin as himself.”
“He’s what I call an apron-stringed farmer,” said Ashbrook. “He was a grocer, and now he’s taken to farming. He’ll find it a poor catch.”
“You don’t say much, John, but what you do say aint a great ways off the mark. He will find it a poor catch for all he tries to strip two skins off a cow, and would stoop any day to take a farthing off a dunghill wi’ his teeth. I dare say ye’ve heard in yer Sunday travels ’em tell that he who changes his trade often makes soup in a basket.”
“If a man was bred and born a farmer,” said his companion, “and could tackle hold of the right end of the stick, and mek the quarters meet as should be, I don’t think he’d want to change his trade—that is, if he has got a farm worth working, but land ’ill beat any man.”
The old farmer gave a laugh of pleasure, disguised as a cough; then he asked for his pipe, and having filled the bowl with the Turkish herb, dipped the stem into the beer to sweeten the clayey morsel to his mouth.