“Only said ‘Burr-urr!’” grumbled old Tummus.
“Well, you shouldn’t; and I do wish you would use the proper knife and fork like a Christian, and keep your pork on your plate.”
“This here’s quite sharp enough, missus,” said the old man, cutting the piece of pork with the blade of his great pruning-knife, and re-arranging the piece under his perfectly clean but dirty-looking, garden-stained thumb.
“But it looks so bad, cutting like that; and how do we know what you used that knife for last.”
“Well, Muster John Grange can’t see, can he?”
“No, no, I cannot see, man,” said Grange sadly. “Go on in your own way as if I were not here.”
“Burr-urr!” growled old Tummus again.
“Why, what is the matter with the man?” cried his wife. “Have you not meat enough?”
“Aye, it’s right enow. I was only thinking about them orchards. I know.”
“Know what?” said his wife.