‘Easy come and easy go,’ said Mr. Trippett. ‘I’ve heard that’s the way with that sort. Will this lad take after his father, then?’
‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine, ‘I don’t think he will. He can’t draw a line—doesn’t seem to have it in him. Curious thing that, but it is so. No—he’s all for reading. I never saw such a lad for books. He’s got a great chest full o’ books at the station yonder—wouldn’t leave London without them.’
‘Happen turn out a parson or a lawyer,’ suggested Mr. Trippett.
‘Nay,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘It’s my impression he’ll turn out a poet, or something o’ that sort. They tell me there’s a good living to be made out o’ that nowadays.’
Mr. Trippett lifted the kettle on to the brightest part of the fire, mixed himself another glass of grog, and pushed the decanter towards his friend.
‘There were only a poorish market at Oakbro’ t’other day,’ he said. ‘Very low prices, and none so much stuff there, nayther.’
Mr. Pepperdine followed his host’s example with respect to the grog, and meditated upon the market news. They plunged into a discussion upon prices. Mrs. Trippett entered the room, took up a basket of stockings, planted herself in her easy-chair, and began to look for holes in toes and heels. The two farmers talked; the grandfather’s clock ticked; the fire crackled; the whole atmosphere was peaceful and homelike. At last the talk of prices and produce was interrupted by the entrance of the stout serving-maid.
‘If you please’m, there’s Jim Wood from the station with two trunks for Mr. Pepperdine, and he says is he to put ’em in Mr. Pepperdine’s trap?’ she said, gazing at her mistress.
‘Tell him to put them in the shed,’ said Mr. Pepperdine. ‘I’ll put ’em in the trap myself. And here, my lass, give him this for his trouble,’ he added, diving into his pocket and producing a shilling.
‘And give him a pint o’ beer and something to eat,’ said Mr. Trippett.