“That's so, but she's not going to give him any more,” Wilkinson rejoined. “He married Sadie for her money, and now he hasn't sense enough to stick to her.”
It was obvious that he had secured the others' attention, for they waited eagerly, with their eyes fixed on him. The room was quiet, but a rig came up the street and the rattle of wheels and harness drowned the sound of steps outside. Nobody noticed that the door, which was not quite shut, opened wider.
“What do you mean by that?” one asked.
“Bob's running after Mrs. Festing. Old sweetheart of his in England, though he turned her down to marry Sadie. Now she's got hold of him again—tired of Festing or has a pick on Mrs. Charnock, perhaps. Anyhow, Bob's round the Festing place all the time, and I don't know that I blame him much. Mrs. Festing's a looker and Sadie's a difficult woman to live with.”
“But what has Festing got to say?”
Wilkinson laughed. “Festing's a bit of a sucker and doesn't know. He's scared about the big crop he has sown and thinks of nothing but the weather and his farm, while Bob goes over when he's off at work. But I guess there's trouble coming soon.”
“It's coming now,” said somebody, and Wilkinson's jaw fell slack, and he sat with his mouth open as Festing strode into the room.
The latter had come to look for a smith, and hearing Wilkinson's voice as he went up the steps, waited for a moment or two. He was too late, in one sense, because the harm had been done, but he could not steal away. Although the course he meant to take was not very logical, judgment would be given against him if he did nothing. His sunburned face was rather white and he stood very stiff, with muscles braced, looking down at Wilkinson.
“Get up, you slanderous brute, and tell them it's a lie,” he said.
“I'll be shot if I will!” said Wilkinson, who got on his feet reluctantly. “You know it's true.”