“Twice as much land,” said the squire, holding out his hand. “Spoken like a man, Master Tallington; and if the draining fails, which it can’t do, I’ll pay you two hundred myself.”
“Nay, thou weant,” said Farmer Tallington stoutly. “Nay, squire, I’ll tak’ my risk of it, and if it turns out bad, Tom will have to tak’ his chance like his father before him. I had no two hundred or five hundred pounds to start me.”
“Nor I,” said the squire.
“May we talk now, father?” said Dick.
“Yes, if you like.”
“Then,” cried Dick, “I wish you wouldn’t do it. Why, it’ll spoil all the fishing and the ’coy, and we shall get no ice for our pattens, and there’ll be no water for the punt, and no wild swans or geese or duck, and no peat to cut or reeds to slash. Oh, I say, father, don’t drain the fen.”
“Why, you ignorant young cub,” cried the squire, “do you suppose you are always to be running over the ice in pattens, and fishing and shooting?”
“Well, no, not always,” said Dick, “but—”
“But—get out with your buts, sir. Won’t it be better to have solid land about us instead of marsh, and beef and mutton instead of birds, and wheat instead of fish?”
“No, I don’t think so, father.”