The smile on Olf’s face expanded into a grin. Clasping the post still more firmly with one hand, he swung himself round it to the full length of his arm, then swung himself back again and became suddenly serious.
“Nay, sir, nay, there’s nothin’ wrong. I thought I mid just so well show you this ’ere.”
Down went his hand into the depths of his pocket, from which, after producing sundry articles of no particular interest to any one but their owner, he drew forth a piece of paper, folded small, and soiled with much fingering. This he handed to his master, his face now preternaturally solemn, his eyes round with an expression which might almost be taken for one of awe.
Farmer Inkpen smoothed out this document and read it, his jaw dropping with amazement when he had mastered its contents. He stared at Olf, who stared back at him with palpably increasing nervousness.
“Whatever is it?” cried Mrs. Inkpen, thrusting her head round from behind the dappled flank of her particular cow. “No bad noos, I hope.”
“Bad noos!” ejaculated her husband, recovering his wits and his voice together, “what d’ye think? Olf there has come into a fortun’!”
“Never!” exclaimed Mrs. Inkpen, craning her neck as far as she could round her charge, but not ceasing for a moment in her occupation. “You don’t say so!”
“However did ye manage that, Olf?” cried Annie Inkpen. And the “spurt spurt” of the milk into her pail ceased for a moment.
“’Tis a prize drawin’,” explained her father, speaking for Olf, who was notoriously slow with his tongue. “He’ve a-been an’ took a ticket in one o’ them Dutch lotteries.”
“Four on ’em,” interrupted Olf, with unexpected promptitude.