Abel threw back his head and laughed uproariously.
“I should like to come to your weddin’, Dan!” he cried ecstatically, “I d’ ’low I should.”
“Ye won’t, though,” retorted Chaffey. “Ye’ll be jist in the thick o’ your ploughin’—I thought o’ that. I axed the Reverend to fix time a-purpose. No, we’ll be wed on the quiet, Phœbe an’ me—I settled that.”
“There, ’tis real ill-natured o’ you, Dan,” cried one of the youths, looking archly at his comrades. “Sich a pretty sight as ’twill be. Sure it will! And your missus, sich a beauty!”
“Haw, haw, haw!” came the chorus again.
“Her eyes, now,” giggled Abel, “’twill be sich a convenience for the man to have a missus what can keep one eye on the dinner an’ t’other on the garden.”
“An’ her figure,” said Jarge Vacher, “did ye have to make the gate anyways larger, Dan?”
“No, there’d be no need for that,” returned Abel, before Daniel could open his mouth. “The woman could get in very nicely sideways, more pertick’ler since she can see all round her like.”
Chaffey’s complexion had been gradually deepening from crimson to purple, and from purple to a fine rich mahogany, his smile had widened to an extent that was positively painful, but he spoke with unimpaired good humour.
“Neighbours, you may laugh, but I do know what I’m about. I do know very well Phœbe Cosser bain’t a beauty, but she’s good, and I d’ ’low she’ll make I comfortable—an’ that’s the main p’int to look to. She mid be a bit older nor what I be——”