“This,” said the squire, smiling; “a man who puts his hand to the plough should not look back.”
“That’s true,” said Farmer Tallington; “but when he gets a letter to say some one’s going to kill him, and draws coffins on the paper, it’s enough to mak’ him look back.”
“It’s all stuff, neighbour! Treat it as I do—with contempt.”
“Ah! you see you’re a gentleman, squire, and a bit of a scholar, and I’m only a plain man.”
“A good neighbour and a true Englishman, Tallington; and I’m glad my son has so good and frank a companion as your boy. There, take my advice: treat all this opposition with contempt.”
“Theer’s my hand, squire,” said Farmer Tallington. “You nivver gave me a bad bit of advice yet, and I’ll stick to what you say—but on one condition.”
“What’s that?” said the squire, smiling.
“You’ll let me grumble now and then.”
Long before Farmer Tallington had parted from the squire at the beginning of the rough track which led from the Priory to Grimsey, Dick and Tom were down by the water’s edge waiting for Dave, who came up with a dry-looking smile upon his face—a smile which looked as if it were the withered remains of a last year’s laugh.
“How are you, Dave?” cried Dick. “We only just knew you were coming. Are there plenty of ducks?”