“And then you want to dip into my pockets for repairs. It would pay me to keep you ill in bed.”
“Not in the long run, when roofs began to gape and gates dropped all to bits. There’d be a tidier penny to pay then than now.”
“Have it your own way, Michael, but remember I’m a poor man.”
The ancient ritual went its way, as they moved from one corner to another of the trim farmstead—Hardcastle with shrewd reluctance, Michael with deep resolve to get all he wanted, and a little more.
The little more was broached as Hardcastle was leaving, after a wide-spread meal in the farmstead’s parlour.
“Talking of mistals——” said Michael.
“We didn’t happen to be.”
“No, but we were thinking o’ them. That one yonder would be all the better if it was doubled in size. The farm’s prospering so, I’ve scarcely room for my beasts to turn about in.”
“But, Michael, you’re bound to die soon, in one of those bad turns of yours. You’d better be thinking of your latter end, instead of farm-buildings.”
The man’s weather-red face grew plump with laughter. “I’m not on such nodding-terms with death as I used to be, Master. There’s summat in this durned feud with Garsykes that makes me want to live to a hundred and three.”