The local Christie minstrels, however, had not gone away, and as Mr. Dunnock spoke a loud knock resounded on the door.
“You had better go upstairs, Anne. Kindly leave me to deal with them.”
Anne ran upstairs, trembling with rage, and rushed into her father’s bedroom, where, by looking out of window, she was able to see what was going on and overhear most of what was being said.
When Mr. Dunnock opened the door he found all the ploughmen gathered in a group on the doorstep.
“It’s Plough Monday, Sir, and we have come to keep it, and ask you for a piece of money for our song.”
“I have told you already to go away,” said the clergyman, coughing with exasperation. “I don’t give money to beggars.”
There was a silence, then one of the young men at the back laughed and said: “He doesn’t tumble to it; tell the parson that it is Plough Monday.”
“Where would you be if there weren’t no ploughmen, or no ploughing done?” asked the spokesman of the group. “You wouldn’t get no tithes if it weren’t for the plough.”
There was a chorus of approval at that.
“No, that you wouldn’t!”