“I dunno,” said Ben, uninterested.
John did not pursue the subject; and, the grating of cartwheels coming to his ears a few minutes later, went out to attend to his duties. A heavily laden tumbril, drawn by an enormous cart-horse, was slowly approaching from the direction of the village, the driver strolling beside his horse. At sight of John, he called out: “Open up, mate, will ’ee? There ain’t nothing to pay: I got a load o’ manure.”
John lifted a hand, in token that he had heard the request, but addressed himself to a stocky, middle-aged man who was seated on the bench outside the toll-house, purring at a short clay pipe. “Hallo!” he said. “Aught I can do for you?”
“Thank ’ee, I’m just having a bit of a set-down on this here bench of yours—if so be as you’ve no objection?”
“You’re welcome,” John said, going to open the gate.
“Fine day!” remarked the driver of the tumbril, with great affability. “Newcomer, ain’t you? It weren’t you opened to me when I was along last week—leastways, I disremember that it was.”
“That’s right,” John replied, his eyes on the tumbril. “What’s your load?”
“Why, I telled ye! Manure!”
“I know you did, but it looks to me like lime.”
“Lord bless us, wherever was you reared?” exclaimed the driver, with a fine show of astonishment. “Lime’s manure, cully, all right and tight!”