The two old men glared at each other, and Malherb answered. What he heard was nearly true, but that he heard it from Uncle Smallridge instantly angered him. That the labourers should have perceived how Kekewich was ignored—that these hirelings should note their master's indifference to the wisdom of his servitor—again awoke Malherb's temper.
"They say I don't heed Kekewich? Then they lie. Kek's little finger holds more sense than all their stupid heads together."
Whereon Mr. Kekewich shone around him as the sun emerging from a cloud.
"That cross there—good wrought stone wasted," he explained. "They steps might have been made for the bridge we want. So I told 'em; an' all they did was to show the whites of their silly eyes."
The master reflected but a moment; then he issued a command. He spoke in the name of reason—a favourite expedient with the unreasonable.
"Good practical sense. Now we'll see if I run counter to Kekewich. He's right and you're wrong. Here are stones lying useless on my land, and I want even such for a purpose. Reason points to them, and I will use them. Pull down that cross and build my bridge."
"I'd rather take other stones and chance the extra work," said Richard Beer uneasily.
"Pull down that pile there and build my bridge before nightfall, or go your way—all of you," repeated Malherb. Then he departed and left the workers to make decision.
"An' the cross itself, if us knocks off one arm, will be just what we want for the pigs' house!" cried Kekewich triumphantly.
"For God's love throw down your tools and come away!" begged Smallridge, his ancient voice rising into a scream. "Turn your backs upon this place before it's too late."