“Perhaps they will to-night, and I shall come to the field. Well, come along.”
“But really, sir—I—that is—”
“Now look here, John Maine, I’m the spiritual head of the parish, and you must obey me. I can’t help being a man of only your own age—I shall get the better of that. Now if I had been some silver-headed old gentleman, you would have come without a word; so come along. I’ll go back. You are decidedly ill—there’s no mistake about it.”
To John Maine’s great surprise, the vicar took his arm, and half led him back towards Dumford, chattering pleasantly the while.
“I met Mr Simeon Slee as I came along, and he cut me dead. He’s a very nice man in his way, but I’m afraid he works so hard with his tongue, it takes all the strength out of his arms.”
“He’s strange and fond o’ talking, sir,” said John Maine.
“Yes; but words are only words after all, and if they are light and chaffy, they don’t grow like good grain. Bad thing this strike in the town, Maine. Lasted a month now.”
“Very bad, sir.”
“Ah, yes. You agricultural gentlemen don’t indulge in those luxuries, and I’m glad to see that the farm people are very sober.”
“Yes, sir, ’cept at the stattice and the fair.”