“Pst!” said the visitor, “you don’t know what you’m talking about.”
“P’raps I don’t,” answered Betty, placidly, “Peter and me never could mind the names of great folks.”
Five miles from Northmolton is the village of Charles, so long the home of the Rev. Richard Blackmore, the uncle of the novelist. During his incumbency a Northmolton man, fond of lifting his right arm, called on business at the rectory, and was immediately taken in hand by the rector’s wife.
“Did you notice any wood-stacks as you came along?” she inquired.
“Yes, ma’am—a good many.”
“And did you see any pigs?”
“Pigs, ma’am? Yes, I ran up against one.”
“Ah, well; do you know why there are so many pigs at Charles?”