“You’ve got plenty of digging to do, my lad,” he said, laughing. “Finish that, and then perhaps I may let you have a turn my way. Who’s going over to see John Warren?”
“Ah, I wish you would go,” said Mrs Winthorpe, “and take the poor fellow over some things I have ready, in a basket!”
“I’ll go,” said Dick. “Hicky will take us in his punt. There’ll be plenty of time, and it’s moonlight at nine.”
“I’ll go with you, Dick,” said Marston. “What’s the matter with the man?”
“Our own particular complaint, which the people don’t want you to kill, my lad,” said the squire. “Marsh fever—ague. Years to come when it’s swept away by the drainage, the people will talk of it as one of the good things destroyed by our work. They are rare ones to grumble, and stick to their old notions.”
“But the people seem to be getting used to us now.”
“Oh yes! we shall live it down.”
Dick sat and listened, but said nothing. Still he could not help recalling how one old labourer’s wife had shaken her head and spit upon the ground as his father went by, and wondered in his mind whether this was some form of curse.
“Tak’ you over to the Warren, my lad?” said Hickathrift, as they reached the wheelwright’s shed, where the big fellow was just taking down a hoe to go gardening.
“Why, of course I will. Straänge niced evening, Mr Marston! Come along. I’ll put on my coat though, for the mist’ll be thick to-night.”