“Nay, don’t do that, Sir Risdon; and as to a few mushrooms, why, you’re welcome enough; and I’d often be sending a chicken or a few eggs, or a kit o’ butter, or drop o’ milk, all to the Hoze, only we’re feared her ladyship might think it rude.”
“It’s—it’s very good of you, Master Shackle, and I shall never be able to repay you.”
“Tchah! Who wants repaying, Sir Risdon? We have plenty at the farm, and it was on’y day ’fore yes’day as I was out in my little lugger, and we’d took a lot o’ mackrel! ‘Ram,’ I says to my boy Ramillies, ‘think Sir Risdon would mind if I sent him a few fish up to the Hoze?’
“‘Ay, father,’ he says, ‘they don’t want us to send them fish. My lady’s too proud!’”
Sir Risdon sighed, and the man watched him narrowly.
“It’s a pity too,” the latter continued, “specially as we often have so much fish we puts it on the land.”
“Er—if you would be good enough to send a little fish—of course very fresh, Master Shackle, and a few eggs, and a little butter to the Hoze, and let me have your bill by and by, I should be gratified.”
“On’y too glad, Sir Risdon, I will.—Think any one’s been telling tales?”
“Tales?”
“’Bout us, Sir Risdon.”