“Aye, aye! I hear you. You needn’t batter down the doors. I’m a-going to get up, though it’s very early, and I an’t as young as I used to be twenty years ago, nyther,” grumbled the “farmer,” as with many a grunt and sigh, as of an old and weary man, he got up and began to dress himself.
“Sybil,” he whispered to his wife before leaving the room, “I shall have to take my breakfast at a stall in the market-house, and I shall not be back until the market is out, which will be about twelve o’clock. You can have your breakfast brought up here. And mind, my darling, don’t forget to put on your wig, and keep up your character.”
“I shall be very careful, dear Lyon,” she answered, as he kissed and left her.
Lyon Berners went down stairs, where he found the landlord, who was an “early bird,” waiting for him.
“Morning, farmer. What is it that you’ve brought to market, anyways?” he said, greeting his guest.
“Mostly garden truck,” answered Lyon.
“No poultry, eggs, nor butter?”
“No.”
“’Cause, if you had, I might deal with you myself.”
“Well, you see, landlord, them kind of produce is ill convenient to bring a long ways in a wagon. And I came from a good ways down the country,” explained Lyon, as he took his long leathern whip from the corner where he had left it, and went out to look after his team.