At six o’clock they sat down to the harvest dinner, which was spread and served on a table of fabulous length in a corner of the plat, where the grass had been mowed for the purpose.
It was still warm enough for al fresco repasts—at least, on such an evening as this, when the air was fragrant, when the nightingale was singing, and when the last rays of sunlight fell goldenly and gloriously upon the scene.
As soon as the sirloins of beef and huge plum puddings had disappeared from the table, and pipes with tobacco had taken their place, a low whisper ran backwards and forwards, and more than one voice cried audibly for Joe Doughty.
Joe had earned the rank of the Lord of the Harvest by reaping more corn than any other labourer on the farm. It was one of the duties of this nobleman to propose the health of the reapers.
He was, like a good many more, unaccustomed to public speaking. So he rose and said—
“Pr’aps as Master Cheadle was the vice, sitting opposite to Master Ashbrook and all——”
“Strike me into brandy pop, you’re a coming it strong, young man,” said Cheadle, with affected sternness, “Don’t go puttin’ your pack upon other pipple’s shoulders.”
“There, that’s just like my Joe,” cried Doughty’s mother. “He knows I want him to speechify, and he’s a tryin’ to get out of it on purpose to worrit me.”
“All right, mother,” cried Doughty, “you shan’t be worrited. I aint much of a hand at speechifying, but I dunno as I ought to shirk my duty; so you see I shall ha’ to cut the matter as short as the stubble in the whate-fields. I’m a goin’ to ax you to drink the health of the most considerate and kindest of masters as ever mortal man had. From the first drop of the dew-cup to what we are drinking now, when ha’ we had to ask for beer and couldn’t get it?”
Chorus of voices: “Never!”