"The same old Hiram Hey! Bitter as a dried sloe," growled Shameless Wayne.
"Sloes is wholesome, choose what; an' I addle too little brass to keep me owt but dry—let alone that I'm no drinker by habit."
The master winced at this last home-thrust, then squared his jaw obstinately. "Hard words plough no fields, Hiram—no, nor lime them either, as is plain to be seen. Thou'rt a week behind with this field."
Hiram glanced edgeways at him, not understanding that two could use his own rough weapons. "A week behind, am I, Maister? An' how should ye come to know whether I'm forrard or behind wi' farm wark?"
Wayne's face softened for a moment. "Because the last word I heard from father was touching this same field—and by that token, Hiram, I'll see that thou gett'st it limed, and sown, and bearing its crop, all in good season, if I have to whip thee up and down the furrows."
His sister laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hush, Ned!" she whispered. "Thou'lt win scant labour from such as Hiram, unless thou bearest a kindlier tongue."
Yet Shameless Wayne, who was counted light of head and judgment, saw more sides to the matter than prudent Mistress Nell; the temper of the moor folk was an open book to him, and he knew that if he were to be master henceforth he must begin as such, or any after-kindness he might show would count for folly with Hiram and his kind.
Hiram Hey was looking steadily at the master now, a hard wonder tempering his obstinacy a little. And so they eyed each other, until the older man's glance faltered, and recovered and fell again to the white spots of lime that littered the peat-mould at his feet.
"Now," said Wayne, "thou hast got thy cart full, Hiram. Give yond chestnut of thine a taste of thy hand, and we'll see if thou hast learned yet to spread a field."
"Hev I learned to spread a field? Me that hes sarved at Marsh, man an' boy, these forty years!" cried Hiram, open-mouthed now.