"But she said Oscar ought to be shot," grumbled the farmer. "Shoot Oscar!" he muttered to himself.
"You see, it's like this 'ere, religion's a funny thing. When it gets 'old of you, it either makes you mild, like 'Earty 'ere, or it makes you as 'ot as onions, like my missis. She don't mean no 'arm; but when you gone 'ead first over a stile, an' your sort o' shy about yer legs, it don't make you feel you wants to give yer sugar ticket to the bull wot did it."
"The—the strawberries, Joseph," Mr. Hearty broke in upon the conversation, addressing Bindle rather than the farmer, of whom he stood in some awe.
"Ah! dang it, o' course, them strawberries," cried the farmer, who had been advised by Patrol-leader Smithers that a potential customer would call. "Come along this way," and he led the way to a large barn, still mumbling under his breath.
"This way," he cried again, as he entered and pointed to where stood row upon row of baskets full of strawberries, heavily scenting the air. Hearty walked across the barn, picked up a specimen of the fruit and bit it.
"What price are you asking for them?" he enquired.
"Fourpence," was the retort.
"I'm afraid," said Mr. Hearty with all the instincts of the chafferer, "that I could not pay more than——"
"Then go to hell!" roared the farmer. "You get off my farm or—or I'll let Oscar loose," he added with inspiration.
For the last quarter of an hour he had restrained himself with difficulty; but Mr. Hearty's bargaining instinct had been the spark that had ignited the volcano of his wrath.