Farmer Hunt stood leaning over his farmyard gate with the reflective, and at the same time pleasantly expectant, expression of the man who awaits at any moment a summons to dinner. To him, picking her steps cautiously down the muddy lane which led to his premises, came old Becky Melmouth, her skirts tilted high and an empty basket on her arm. Farmer Hunt nodded at her good-humouredly, and hailed her as soon as she was within hearing.
“What!” cried he. “Have ye brought me another of ’em?”
“I’ve a-brought ye two,” returned Becky triumphantly. “But maybe you’re too busy to attend to me just now,” she added, with a glance that was half apologetic and half appealing.
“Oh, I can spare a minute for that,” said the farmer good-naturedly. “Brewery hooter’s not gone yet, and we don’t have dinner till one. Step in, Mrs. Melmouth.”
He preceded her into the house, and led the way to a small parlour, empty save for a large yellow cat which lay curled up on the hearthrug. With a mysterious air which assorted with the cautious glance thrown round by Becky as she closed the door, he proceeded to unlock a large oak chest, and thrusting in his hand, drew forth a faded worsted stocking. As he handed this to the old woman the contents chinked with a portentous sound. Mrs. Melmouth’s eyes glistened, and her rosy wrinkled face wreathed itself with smiles, as she slowly undid the knot at the upper end, and thrust in her hand. A further chinking sound ensued, and she looked jubilantly up at the farmer.
“There be a lot on ’em now,” she remarked.
“Ah, sure!” he agreed. “An’ you be bringin’ two shillin’ more, you do say?”
“Two shillin’ an’ a thruppenny bit,” corrected Becky gleefully. “I be doin’ uncommon well wi’ my eggs an’ chicken jist now.”
“Dear heart alive! Keep the thruppence, ’ooman!” cried Mr. Hunt, with a certain amount of impatience. “It ’ull maybe buy you a relish of some sort as ’ull make ye fancy your victuals more. I reckon you do scrimp too much.”
Becky pursed up her lips and shook her head.