“Yes, mother, and the cutter’s lying a mile out.”
“Oh, dear, dear, dear!” cried the woman; “I hope there won’t be no trouble, boy.”
She stood wiping her dry hands upon her apron, and gazed thoughtfully with wrinkled brow straight before her for a minute, as if conjuring up old scenes; then, taking down a basket as she moved inside, she began to pack up the various things in the dairy, while Ram looked on.
“Father didn’t say anything about a bottle of cream, mother,” said the boy, grinning.
“Then hear, see, and say nothing, my lad,” cried his mother.
“And I don’t think he said you was to send that piece of pickled pork, mother.”
“He said chickens, didn’t he?”
“Said a chickun.”
“Chicken means chickens,” cried Mrs Shackle, “and you can’t eat chicken without pork or bacon. ’Tisn’t natural.”
“Father said two rolls of butter.”