“Well, there I don’t agree with you, Dengate,” said the doctor haughtily, as Dexter came and stood by him, having grown deeply interested.
“Don’t you, sir? Well, then, look here,” said the butcher, rolling his yellow handkerchief into a cannon ball and ramming it into his hat, as if it were a cannon that he now held beneath his left arm. “There’s a path certainly from stile to stile, but it only leads to my farrest medder, and though I never says nothing to nobody who thinks it’s a nice walk down there by the river to fish or pick flowers or what not, though they often tramples my medder grass in a way as is sorrowful to see, they’re my medders, and the writing’s in my strong-box, and not a shilling on ’em. All freehold, seven-and-twenty acres, and everybody as goes on is a trespasser, so what do you say to that?”
The butcher unloaded the imaginary cannon as he said this triumphantly, and dabbed his face with the ball.
“Say?” said the doctor, smiling; “why, that I’m a trespasser sometimes, for I like to go down there for a walk. It’s the prettiest bit out of the town.”
“Proud to hear you say so, sir,” said the butcher eagerly. “It is, isn’t it? and I’m proud to have you go for a walk there, sir. Honoured, I’m sure, and if the—er—the young gentleman likes to pick a spot out to keep ground baited for a bit o’ fishing, why, he’s hearty welcome, and my man shall save him as many maddicks for bait as ever he likes.”
“I’ll come,” cried Dexter eagerly. “May I go?” he added.
“Yes, yes; we’ll see,” said the doctor; “and it’s very kind of Mr Dengate to give you leave.”
“Oh, that’s nothing, sir. He’s welcome as the flowers in May; but what I wanted to say, sir, was that as they’re my fields, and people who comes is only trespassers, I’ve a right to put anything I like there. I don’t put danger for the public: they comes to the danger.”
“Yes; that’s true,” said the doctor. “Of course, now you mention it, there’s no right of way.”
“Not a bit, sir, and I might turn out old Billy, if I liked.”