“Three good useful horses, and the best-bred bull and cow in the marsh, squire,” said Farmer Tallington, who had come over as soon as he heard the news. “Any idea who it could be?”
“No,” said the squire; “thank goodness, no. I don’t want to find out the wretch’s name, Tallington, for I’m a hot-tempered, passionate man.”
“It’s the drain, neighbour, the drain,” said the farmer, shaking his head. “Let’s be content with the money we’ve lost, and try to put a stop to proceedings before we suffer more and worse. There’s them about as hev sworn the drain sha’n’t be made, and it’s the same hands that fired my stacks and those shots, neighbour.”
“I daresay it is, farmer,” said the squire sternly; “but do you know what it says in the Book about the man who puts his hand to the plough?”
“Ay, I think I know what you mean.”
“And so do you, Dick?” said the squire.
“Yes, father.”
“Well, my boy, I’ve put my hand to the plough to do a good, honest, sensible work, and, knowing as I do, that it’s a man’s duty to go on with it, I shall stand fast, come what may.”
“And not leave me in the lurch, Mr Winthorpe?” said a voice.
“No, Marston, not if they hamstring me in turn,” cried the squire, holding out his hand to the young engineer, who had hurried over. “I suppose I shall get a bullet in me one of these days; but never mind, we’ve begun the drain. And do you hear, all of you?” he shouted; “spread it about that the fen will be drained, and that if they killed me, and a hundred more who took my place, it would still be done.”