"What sort o' things?" she asked, demurely sweeping the table free of crumbs.
Hiram ruffled the frill of hair under his chin, and smiled with wintry foolishness. "Well, what's wrang for a young un like th' Maister is right enough for a seasoned chap like me. I'm rather backard i' coming forrard, tha sees, but it cam ower me t' other day that I mud varry weel look round an' about me; an' if I could find a wench 'at war all I looked for i' a wench——"
"Ay, what then, Hiram?"
He paused, and shuffled his feet among the heap of farmyard mud which had already fallen from his boots. "Why, there's niver no telling—niver no telling at all," he said, with an air of deep wisdom.
"Sakes, he's a slow un to move, is Hiram," muttered the girl, losing patience at last.
"Well, I mun be seeing after things, I reckon, or there'll be summat getting out o' gear," said Hiram, rising and stretching himself in very leisurely fashion.
"Ay, tha'rt famous thrang," flashed Martha. "Comes moaning an' groaning, does Hiram, at after he'd done his day, an' swears th' wark goes nigh to kill him. An' this is what it comes to most days, I reckon—loitering by stiles, an' talking foolishness to wenches 'at are ower busy to hearken——"
"Nay, lass, nay! I wod liefer we didn't part fratching."
"Well, hast getten owt to say?" she asked, facing him abruptly.
"Say? Well, now, I'm backard i' coming forrard, as I telled thee—but tha'rt as snod-set-up a wench as iver——"