"Long life an' happiness to 'e!"
"Good luck to the both of 'e!"
Then a jumble and buzz of many speaking together; lifting of voices into a cheer; a gap in the road, where the carriage had stood; a puff of dust at the corner by the old pound; and courageous fowls, clucking and fluttering and risking their lives for scattered rice, among crushed roses and the legs of the people.
The bells rang out; the dust died down; personages drove slowly up the hill to the banquet; certain persons walked up. Mr. Cramphorn, fearful of a love contagion in the air, convoyed his daughters home himself, and Libby, growing faint-hearted before the expression on Jonah's face, abandoned his design of walking by Sally's side for half the distance and with Margery for the rest. Henry Collins was also deprived of the society he craved, and by ill-fortune it chanced that Ash, Pinsent, and the two rivals found themselves in company on the journey home. Collins thereupon relieved his wounded soul by being extremely rude, and he began with a personal remark at the expense of Gregory's best coat and emerald tie.
"All black an' green, I see—mourning for the devil that is," he said, in a tone not friendly.
"Aw! Be he dead then?" inquired Mr. Libby with great show of interest.
"Not while the likes of you's stirrin'. An' what for do 'e want to make a doomshaw of yourself—wearin' two rosettes, like a Merry Andrew, when other men have but wan?"
"Grapes are sour with you, I reckon, Henery. You see I puts this here left bow just awver my 'eart, 'cause Sally Cramphorn gived it to me."
Collins blazed into a fiery red, and a fist of huge proportions clenched until the knuckles grew white.
"Have a care," he said, "or I'll hit 'e awver the jaw! Such a poor penn'orth as you to set two such gals as them by the ears!"