“Oh, nonsense! We’re off home. Tom Tallington’s going to have supper with me.”
“Nay, he’s going to hev his supper here along o’ uz,” said Hickathrift. “Didn’t I say, missus, I’d bring ’em home?”
“Yes, Mester Dick,” cried Mrs Hickathrift; “and thank ye kindly, do stop.”
“Oh, but we must get back!” cried Dick, who shrank from partaking of the wheelwright’s kindly hospitality.
“Theer, I towd you so,” cried Mrs Hickathrift to her husband, and speaking in an ill-used tone. “They’re used to table-cloths, and squire’s wife’s got silver spoons.”
“Nay, nay, never mind the cloths and spoons, Mester Dick; stop and have a bite.”
“But, Hicky—”
“Nay, now,” cried the wheelwright interrupting; “don’t thee say thou’rt not hungry.”
“I wasn’t going to,” said Dick, laughing, “because I am horribly hungry. Aren’t you, Tom?”
Tom showed his teeth. It was meant for a smile, but bore a wonderful resemblance to a declaration of war against the food upon the table.