“Ye–es—I suppose so. This once only, Master Shackle.”
“Thank ye, Sir Risdon,” said the man. “Jee, Dutchman!”
The horse tugged at the tumbril, and Sir Risdon went thoughtfully along the field, toward a clump of trees lying in a hollow, while Master Shackle went on chuckling to himself.
“Couldn’t say me nay, poor fellow. Half-starved they are sometimes. Wonder he don’t give up the old place, and go away. Hope he won’t. Them cellars are too vallyble. Hallo! What now?”
This to the fair curly-headed lad, who came trotting up across the short turf.
“Been looking at the cutter, father?”
“Oh, she don’t want no looking at. Who brought those cows down here?”
“Jemmy Dadd.”
“He’s a fool. We shall be having some of ’em going over the cliff. Go home and tell mother to put a clean napkin in a basket, and take two rolls of butter, a bit of honey, and a couple of chickens up to the Hoze.”
“Yes, father.”