"Well, then, if I'm not to hear anything dooring meals—as if I'd swallow it and take it into my stomach!—I'll wait again for what ye've got to tell," she said, and finished her cup at a gulp, smoothing her apron.
The farmer then lifted his head.
"Mother, if you've done, you'll oblige me by going to bed," he said. "We want the kitchen."
"A-bed?" cried Mrs. Sumfit, with instantly ruffled lap.
"Upstairs, mother; when you've done—not before."
"Then bad's the noos! Something have happened, William. You 'm not going to push me out? And my place is by the tea-pot, which I cling to, rememberin' how I seen her curly head grow by inches up above the table and the cups. Mas' Gammon," she appealed to the sturdy feeder, "five cups is your number?"
Her hope was reduced to the prolonging of the service of tea, with Master
Gammon's kind assistance.
"Four, marm," said her inveterate antagonist, as he finished that amount, and consequently put the spoon in his cup.
Mrs. Sumfit rolled in her chair.
"O Lord, Mas' Gammon! Five, I say; and never a cup less so long as here you've been."