“A fine salmon fish it be surely,” said the blacksmith. “Seven pounds, I'll wager, if 'tis an ounce.”
“Out upon thee for a curmudgeon,” shouted the miller, giving the blacksmith a push of a vehemence so friendly that he with difficulty retained his place on the settee.
“'Tis a mortal pity that so spirited a mare foal will be tamed sooner or later—that's the way with all female flesh whether well-favoured or black-a-vised,” remarked the farmer..
Richard Pritchard, who was the only single man present, shook his head with as great a show of gravity as if he had spent his life taming spirited things.
His arrogance aroused his host.
“And what are you that gives yourself airs, my man?” he cried. “What call has a worm of a bachelor to let his tongue wag on a matter that might well make owdacious fathers o' families keep dead silence? Richard Pritchard, my good man, this talk is not for such as thee. Thou beest a middling silent man by nature, Dick, and for that thou shouldst be thankful when wild words be flying abroad on household matters.”
“I allow that I went too far, neighbour, though I call all to witness that I did not open my mouth to speak,” said the water-finder, with great humility.
“You are aye over daring, though never all through immoral, Dick,” said the blacksmith gravely.
“I allow that I earned reproof, friend,” said Richard.' “We all be human, and many have frail thought of high language, and a proud heart at the hope of wisdom and ancient learning. But I take reproof with no ill-feeling.”
The miller roared at the success of his jest.