“Ay,” corroborated Caleb, “the proverb be two birds.”
“But here,” Bundock explained between two convulsions, “it’s two frogs.”
Caleb shook his head. “Oi’ve lived here or by the saltings afore you was born, and brought up a mort o’ childer here. Two birds, sonny, two birds.”
Bundock’s closing chuckles died into ineffable contempt.
“Good morning,” he said firmly.
“You’re sure you won’t have a sip o’ pagles wine?” repeated Martha.
He shook his head sternly. “If I had time for drinking I’d have time to tell you all the news.” He turned on his heel, presenting the post-bag at them like a symbol of duty.
“Anything fresh?” murmured Martha.
Bundock veered round viciously. “D’you suppose all Bradmarsh is as sleepy as the Froggeries? Fresh? Why, there’s things as fresh as the thatch on Farmer Gale’s barn or the paint on Elijah Skindle’s new dog-hospital or the black band on the chimney-sweep’s Sunday hat.”
“Is Mrs. Whitefoot dead?” inquired Martha anxiously.