“An old wicked one, who buys up mills and starves the poor, so that he may go on in his evil ways. I told you all so, but it’s come to him at last.”
“Oh dear me!” ejaculated the Vicar. “Keep my arm, David. Here, you sir, get up.”
“Shot me with a gun—shot me with a gun,” yelled Pete, who had got hold of one form of complaint, and kept to it.
“Silence, sir! It’s all nonsense; no one fired a gun.”
“Yes; shot me, and knocked me off the wall.”
“Is he hurt?” asked the Vicar, as Uncle Richard now sat up.
“Don’t think so, sir,” said one of the village people. “We can’t find nothing the matter with him.”
“I told you so—I told you all so,” continued Mother Warboys, waving her stick.
“And I tell you so,” cried the Vicar angrily. “Go along home, you wicked old she Shimei. How dare you come cursing here when your poor neighbours are in trouble!”
“I—I—I don’t care—I will say it,” cried Mother Warboys.