“As to politics,” said Mr. Haviland, when his visitor rose to depart, “I hear you are something of a politician, Craddock.”
“Summat o' one, sir,” answered Sammy, his evident satisfaction touched with a doubtful gravity. “Summat o' one. I ha' my opinions o' things i' gineral.”
“So I have been told; and they have made you rather unpopular among our county people, per-haps?”
“I am na mich o' a favorite,” with satisfaction.
“No, the fact is that until Miss Barholm came to me I had rather a bad idea of you, Craddock.”
This looked somewhat serious, Craddock regarding it rather in the light of a challenge.
“I'd loike well enow to ha' yo' change it,” he said, “but my coat is na o' th' turnin' web. I mun ha' my say about things—gentry or no gentry.” And his wrinkled old visage expressed so crabbed a determination that Mr. Haviland laughed outright.
“Oh! don't misunderstand me,” he said, “stick to your party, Craddock. We will try to agree, for Miss Barholm's sake. I will leave you to your opinion, and you will leave me to mine—even a Member of Parliament has a right to an opinion, you know, if he doesn't intrude it upon the public too much.”
Craddock went home in a mollified frame of mind. He felt that he had gained his point and held his ground, and he respected himself accordingly. He felt too that his associates had additional right to respect him. It was their ground too, and he had held it for them as well as for himself. He stopped at The Crown for his midday glass of ale; and his self-satisfaction was so evident that his friends observed it, and remarked among themselves that “th' owd lad wur pickin' up his crumbs a bit.”
“Yo're lookin' graidely to-day, Sammy,” said one.