John was milking as the farmer entered his cow-yard, and a flood of sunlight slanted over the low byre roofs and made the coats of the cattle shine ripe chestnut red.
“Evenin’ to ’e, Aggett. Leave that job an’ come an’ have a tell wi’ me. I wants to speak to ’e.”
“Evenin’, maister. I’ll milk `Prim’ dry, ’cause she do awnly give down to me. Milly can do t’others.”
Farmer Chave waited until the cow “Prim” had yielded her store, then he led the way to an empty cow-stall—dark, cool and scented by its inhabitants. Across the threshold fell a bar of light; without, a vast heap of rich ordure sent forth delicate sun-tinted vapour; close at hand the cows stood waiting each her turn, and one with greatly distended udder lowed to the milkmaid.
“Look you here, Jan Aggett, you’m for marryin’, ban’t ’e? Didn’t you tell me when I took you on as a you was keepin’ company wi’ blacksmith’s purty darter?”
“’Twas so, then.”
“Well, I’m one as likes to see my hands married an’ settled an’ getting childer ’cordin’ to Bible command. What’s your wages this minute?”
“You’m on a wrong tack, maister. Sarah Belworthy an’ me be out. Theer’s nought betwixt us more.”
Mr. Chave affected great indignation at this statement.
“’Struth! Be you that sort?”