“Will you have me, Maggie?” he inquired pleasantly.
“Dear heart alive!” ejaculated the farmer, while his wife once more gave utterance to a shout of laughter.
It was now Maggie’s turn to flush and look disconcerted. “I’m not goin’ to put up wi’ Annie’s leavings,” she cried indignantly. “The idea! I s’pose you reckon any maid is to be picked up for the axin’, Olfred Boyt. You think you have nothin’ more to do nor just p’int your finger at the first one you fancy an’ she’ll have you straight off. A pretty notion!”
“A pretty notion indeed,” cried Annie, “and a pretty figure he’d be to go out a-coortin’!”
“’E-es,” resumed Maggie, with ever-increasing indignation, “a pretty figure, I d’ ’low. Tell ye what, Olf, next time you go a-coortin’ ye’d best wash your face first.”
“Ah! ’tis true. ’Twould be a good notion,” laughed the farmer. “Ye bain’t exactly the kind o’ figure a maid ’ud jump at.”
Olf raised a grimy hand to his sunburnt face as though to ascertain what manner of appearance it presented. It was true he had not washed it that morning, but there was nothing surprising in that. It would indeed have been a manifestly sinful waste of soap and water to perform one’s ablutions before “sarving” the pigs. In fact, according to established custom, Olf’s toilet was accomplished at a late hour in the afternoon when his labours were concluded. The condition of his chin would have at once announced to any experienced observer that it was then the middle of the week; from the appearance of his garments he might have recently effected a change with a tolerably respectable scarecrow. Altogether, after a moment’s reflection, Olf felt that Maggie’s point of view was justified, and that he was not precisely the kind of figure to go courting at such short notice. Presently he remarked reflectively, “Ah! ’tis true, I mid ’ave washed myself a bit afore axin’ the question. I will next time.”
Then he held out his hand to the farmer for the paper, pocketed it, and went shambling across the yard towards the corner where the pig-bucket stood.
Except for the clatter of the cans, and the sound of the spurting milk, silence reigned in the shed for a moment after his departure. The farmer stood scratching his chin meditatively, while the women-folk appeared also lost in thought.
By-and-by Mrs. Inkpen’s voice sounded muffled from behind her cow. “A thousand pound, mind ye, isn’t to be picked up every day.”