"In my youth," said Uncle Smallridge, "when the world was awful backward at farming, us growed nought but rye; an' a fool here an' there do still cling to his fathers' coat-tails an' go on growing it. But not one in the forefront of the day, like Dick Beer."
"All the same," concluded Mr. Beer, "the gentleman's best stand-by will be beasts, like the rest of us. It don't pay trying to tame Dartmoor—he'll soon find that out, despite all the talk of Sir Thomas Tyrwhitt an' such-like great men."
"And you want work?" asked the listener.
"So I do. I'm ready to try an' make a fortune for anybody."
"Why are you out of employment?"
"My last master have gived up," confessed the labourer.
"Did you make his fortune?"
"To be plain, he was very unlucky. I couldn't help him. Nobody couldn't. He was overlooked, I reckon. The evil eye was upon him."
"Ah!—Well, Maurice Malherb is not frightened of the evil eye. What wages do you get?"
"Nought to trumpet about. Seven shilling a week—'tis the usual wage, but pinching. My wife be good for two shilling. So us do very well—thanks to God, who didn't send no childer."