“Ay, ’tis a pity,” said Master Peartree. “But first we couldn’t get the labour, and then that rined and their wool was too damp, but Oi need ’em now for the early market.”
“I know. I’m buying a horse there,” said Jinny.
Another tinge of red appeared on the blameless skin of Will’s victim.
“Methusalem ain’t damaged hisself?” asked Master Peartree in concern.
“Oh, no, he’s outside your gate, damaging your hedge.”
“Then whatever do you need another for?”
“Oh, just to ride over somebody. But I wish I’d known you needed labour.”
“Why, want a job?” grinned Jim Puddifoot, a giant in a brimless hat, who was sharpening his shears on a piece of steel. There was a snigger from his mates.
“What’s the pay?” said Jinny, who had been thinking of Uncle Lilliwhyte, lately gravelled for lack of purchasers of his woodland pickings.
“There’s half a suvrin a hundred,” said Master Peartree as seriously, “and four quarts o’ beer.”