“What’s amazing?” said the vicar, smiling.
“Why that you could hit a man such a crack wi’ a hand like this ’ere.”
“Don’t mind him, sir; it’s his way,” said Tom, apologetically. “Fact is, parson, we’re tired o’ doing nowt.”
“I’m glad to hear you say so, Podmore,” said the vicar, earnestly. “I wish from my heart this unhappy strife were at an end. I’m trying my best.”
“Of course you are, sir,” said Tom; “but I thowt mebbe you’d give Harry here and me a bit o’ work.”
“Work! what work?” said the vicar, wonderingly.
“Well, you said I’d best get to work, and I’ve got nowt to do. That Jacky Budd there’s picking about as if he was scarred o’ hurting the ground: let me and Harry dig it up.”
The vicar looked from one to the other for a moment, and as his eyes rested on Harry, that giant gave Tom a clap on the shoulder hard enough to make a bruise, as he exclaimed—
“Hark at that now, for a good’n, parson. Here, gie’s hold of a shovel.”
The vicar led the way to the tool-house, furnished his visitors with tools, and then stood close at hand to supply the science, while the way in which the two men began to dig had such an effect on Jacky Budd that he stood still and perspired.