“I should say I be,” said the surprised farmer. “Be you wanting the job?”
The stranger was evidently a Scot, from his speech, and Scots were not popular in England then. Still, if he could build a wall he was worth day’s wages. “What’s yer name?” Appleby added.
“Just David,” was the answer. “I’m frae Dunedin. There’s muckle stone work there.”
“I make my guess they’ve better stuff for building than that pile o’ pebbles,” muttered the farmer, leaping ashore and kicking with his foot the heap of stone on the bank. “I’ve built that wall over again three times, now.”
The newcomer grinned, not doubtfully but confidently, as if he knew exactly what the trouble was. “We’ll mend all that,” he said, striding down to peer along the water-course. The wriggling stream looked harmless enough now.
“You’ve been in England some time?” queried Appleby.
“Aye,” said David. “I learned my trade overseas and then I came to the Minster, but I didna stay long. Me and the master mason couldna make our ideas fit.”
Barty, sorting over the stones, gazed awestruck at the stranger. Such independence was unheard-of.
“What seemed to be the hitch?” asked the farmer coolly.
“He was too fond o’ making rubble serve for buildin’ stone,” said David. “Then he’d face it with Portland ashlars to deceive the passer-by.”