Supper over, he lit his pipe, had one smoke, then kicked off his boots and said,
"Well, I be off to bed. 'Ten't no good settin' here, lookin' at the fireplace."
The wife grumbled again in the morning, urging him to rest.
"But what's the use?" he said. "It got to be done, and I can't rest ontil 'tis done."
So he got up at the time already mentioned, and came to rake over the potato-ground.
It slopes down to the lane, this ground. Presently the man from the cottage just across the lane came out for his day's work.
"Why, you be for'arder than ever this year, ben't ye, Fred?"
"No, I dunno as I be. I wants to git it done, though, anyhow."
Then the Vicar's gardener passed. He laughed. "Be you determined on gettin' all your ground planted in March, then, Fred?"
Bettesworth laughed back. "I don't care whether 'tis March or April. When I be ready it got to go in."