“No, you ha'n't,” said Master Gammon.
“I give ye notice now.”
“No, you don't.”
“How d' ye mean?”
“Cause I don't take ne'er a notice.”
“Then you'll be kicked out, old man.”
“Hey! there y' have me,” said Master Gammon. “I growed at the farm, and you don't go and tell ne'er a tree t' walk.”
Rhoda laid her fingers in the veteran's palm.
“You're a long-lived family, aren't you, Master Gammon?” said Robert, eyeing Rhoda's action enviously.
Master Gammon bade him go to a certain churchyard in Sussex, and inspect a particular tombstone, upon which the ages of his ancestry were written. They were more like the ages of oaks than of men.