“Beg pardon, sir—a glass?”
“Yes, at the Bull?”
“Never, sir,” said Budd, with an injured air. “I went in to take Mr Robinson’s peck.”
“Peck of what? pease?”
“Peck, sir—peck-axe—maddick.”
“Oh, I see,” said the vicar, looking at the man so that he winced. “Well, Budd, come and see to the garden after breakfast.”
“That I will, sir.”
“And, by the way, Budd.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Don’t wipe your mouth when you have been to return picks or mattocks. I’m rather a hard, matter-of-fact person, and it makes me think a man has been drinking.”