Will generally tackled difficulties in this audacious fashion, and a laugh already began to brighten his eye; but the other quenched it.
“You fool! You knawed you was doin’ wrong better’n I can tell you—an’ such a plaace! A babe could see you ’m workin’ awver living springs. You caan’t fill un even now in the drouth, an’ come autumn an’ rain ’t will all be bog again.”
“Nothing of the sort,” flamed out Will, quite forgetting his recent assertion as to the poverty of the place. “Do ’e think, you, as awnly rides awver the Moor, knaws more about soil than I as works on it? ’Twill be gude proofy land bimebye—so good as any Princetown way, wheer the prison men reclaim, an’ wheer theer’s grass this minute as carries a bullock to the acre. First I’ll plant rye, then swedes, then maybe more swedes, then barley; an’, with the barley, I’ll sow the permanent grass to follow. That’s gude rotation of crops for Dartymoor, as I knaw an’ you doan’t; an’ if the Duchy encloses the best to rob our things[11], why for shouldn’t we—”
“That’ll do. I caan’t bide here listenin’ to your child’s-talk all the marnin’. What Duchy does an’ doan’t do is for higher ’n you or me to decide. If this was any man’s work but yours I’d tell Duchy this night; but bein’ you, I’ll keep mute. Awnly mind, when I comes this way a fortnight hence, let me see these postes gone an’ your plough an’ cart t’ other side that wall. An’ you’ll thank me, when you’ve come to more sense, for stoppin’ this wild-goose chase. Now I’ll have a drop o’ cider, if it’s all the same to you.”
Will opened a stone jar which lay under his coat at hand, and answered as he poured cider into a horn mug for Mr. Vogwell—
“Here’s your drink; but I won’t take your orders, so I tell ’e. Damn the Duchy, as steals moor an’ common wheer it pleases an’ then grudges a man his toil.”
“That’s the spirit as’ll land ’e in the poorhouse, Will Blanchard,” said Mr. Vogwell calmly; “and that’s such a job as might send ’e to the County Asylum,” he added, pointing to the operations around him. “As to damning Duchy,” he continued, “you might as well damn the sun or moon. They’d care as little. Theer ’m some varmints so small that, though they bite ’e with all their might, you never knaw it; an’ so ’t is wi’ you an’ Duchy. Mind now, a fortnight. Thank ’e—so gude cider as ever I tasted; an’ doan’t ’e tear an’ rage, my son. What’s the use?”
“’Twould be use, though, if us all raged together.”
“But you won’t get none to follow. ’Tis all talk. Duchy haven’t got no bones to break or sawl to lose; an’ moormen haven’t got brains enough to do aught in the matter but jaw.”
“An’ all for a royal prince, as doan’t knaw difference between yether an’ fuzz, I lay,” growled Will. “Small blame to moormen for being radical-minded these days. Who wouldn’t, treated same as us?”