“What, aren’t it ready?”
“No; I haven’t begun.”
“Oh. Mebbe it never will be.”
“Oh, yes, I shall finish it,” said Vane.
“Hey, what a lad thou art for scheming things; I wish you’d mak’ me a thing to grind corn wi’out weering all the face off the stones, so as they weant bite.”
“Perhaps I will some day.”
“Ay, there’d be some sense in that, lad. Well, thou alway was a lad o’ thy word when I lent you the boat, so you may have her when you like; bood I’ll lay a wager you don’t get a machine done as’ll row the boat wi’ me aboard.”
“We’ll see,” cried Vane, excitedly.
“Ay, we will,” said the miller. “Bood, say, lad, what a one thou art for scheming! I say I heered some un say that it was one o’ thy tricks that night when church clock kep’ on striking nine hundred and nineteen to the dozen.”
“Well, Mr Round—”