“It’s them sperrits of the fen as has done it all.”
“Ay, so it be!” roared Hickathrift. “Ay! Hey, bud if I could git one of ’em joost now by scruff of his neck and the seat of his breeches, I’d—I’d—I’d roast him.”
“Then it was no accident, Hickathrift?”
“Yes, squire,” said the man bitterly; “same sort o’ axden as bont Farmer Tallington’s stable and shed. Hah, here he is!” he added, as the farmer came panting up with Tom. “Come to waärm theesen, farmer? It’s my turn now.”
“My lad! My lad!” panted the farmer, “I am sorry.”
“Thanky, farmer; but fine words butter no parsneps. Theer, bairn,” he cried, putting his arm round his wife’s waist; “don’t cry that away. We aren’t owd folks, and I’m going to begin again. Be a good dry plaäce after fire’s done, and theer’ll be some niced bits left for yow to heat the oven when fire’s out.”
“And no oven, no roof, no fireside.”
“Hush! hush! bairn!” said the big fellow thickly. “Don’t I tell thee I’m going to begin again! What say, Mester Dick? Nay, nay, lad, nay.”
“What did Dick say?” said the squire sharply.
“Hush, Hicky!” whispered Dick quickly.