"Nay, it dizz n't fall t' be no wuss nor it is. That 's 'ow it suits me," Barclay responded. "It 's no use stayin' i' 'oose, watchin' crops waste. Ah 'm away to Oommuth."
"To buy a bit o' band, ah 's think?" Dixon hazarded, with an internal twinkle.
"Ay, a bit o' band 'll not come amiss i' 'arvest time."
"Don't loss it o' yer way back, onny road," Dixon charged him. "Shall ye come wi' Tankard?"
"Ay," said Barclay oracularly. "Gen ah don't come later, ah shall."
... And drove away in the sloppy channel of the lane, with the clash of the gate behind him for farewell.
The farm lad, returning after a while in sole charge of the cart, with the umbrella totally inverted over him, using one of its rents as a window, held further parley with Dixon at close quarters by the same gate—that Dixon opened for him to save a dismount—concerning his master's departure, and the world in general. The conversation brightened Dixon's face as it proceeded, and sent him back to the house with a sparkle in his eye, as though he 'd been asked to pronounce judgment on a glass of XXX, and could say "Proper stuff this!" with all his heart.
"Noo, ah 've gotten to larn seummut ti morn, onny road," he announced to the household assembled in the big kitchen, from whose window the stack of faces had been interestedly observant of this second conversation. And in response to the very general inquiry: "What 'a ye larnt, then?" answered with another: "What div ye think?"
"What sewd we think, an' all?" Miss Bates demanded rebelliously. "Folks like me 'as no time to think."
"Nay, they 'd do better if they did," Dixon assented, with his imperturbable geniality.