“I see not why a man may not be a judge of hay as well as iron,” said Master Peasegood, as Croftly drove a horse and rough tumbril through the gate, and along the track to where the old stack of hay stood, with a good quarter of it cut away, waiting the knife.
“Neither do I,” said the founder, smiling as he thought of his own business.
“You hear this, friend Gil Carr,” said Master Peasegood; “why not give up thy roving ways, and settle down to help friend Cobbe. There, lad, the good time is coming: the past forgotten; sweet little Mace will be herself again; and Master Cobbe will be ready to take thee by the hand as son. Faith, and how deftly Tom Croftly handles that great blade, and cuts the hay in squares. Were I a fighting man, methinks that would be a good weapon to have in battle. Heyday! what ails the man? Does he want to break his neck?”
For Tom Croftly suddenly threw up his hands, leaped some eight feet down into the meadow, and came up panting and with his forehead bedewed with sweat. His eyes were staring, and his countenance ghastly, while for a few moments he could not speak.
“Hast seen a ghost, Tom Croftly?” cried Master Peasegood with a hearty laugh.
“Close upon it, master,” gasped Croftly. “Hey, master, but it be terrifying.”
“What is terrifying?” cried the founder.
“That, that,” panted the man. “Lord forgive me; I didn’t know what I did.”
“Speak out, man, speak out,” cried the founder, as the poor fellow began to tremble; and he clutched him by the arm, fearing that some new trouble had befallen his house.
“I can’t, yet, master, it be too terrifying,” gasped Croftly. “The Lord forgive me for doing such a deed!”