“You wait! We’re going to come out with a Proclamation.”
“But that’s a Royal thing,” said Jinny.
“Not always: besides we shall end with God save the Queen. Yes, that’s it: ‘Down with the Malt Tax and God save the Queen!’ And the beginning: ‘To our worthy labourers, greeting.’ I’ll draw that up soon as I get home.”
“I should offer ’em ten shillings a week,” said Jinny.
“You’re joking!”
“I’m dead earnest. A family can’t live under ten shillings a week. Then they wouldn’t want to shoot your rabbits and steal your turnips and cabbages.”
“Prices make themselves, I tell you. Folks can’t have more than they’re worth. Why, my dad paid as much as thirteen shillings a week to our old looker, Flynt, when he had his strength. Yes, though nobody ever suspected he got more than twelve.”
“But besides his duties as bailiff he had to see after feeding the stock night and morning, including Sundays.”
“That was why my father paid him the extra shilling. And you can’t say I haven’t treated him generously over the farmhouse.”
“I wonder he could bring up such a large family so genteelly,” mused Jinny at a tangent.