“Yes. We have let you have £5 on account you know. That will have to be paid back, of course, but we won’t press you. You can let us have it little by little.”
“Oh!” said Olf, “thank ye,” and he went out, absently stroking the check sleeve of the beautiful new suit which had cost him so dear.
He shambled back to the farm and paused by the gate, across which Mr. Inkpen was leaning.
“Hullo, Olf, back again?”
“’E-es,” said Olf, “I be back again, maister. Ye bain’t suited yet, be ye?”
“Not yet,” said the farmer, “but ye can’t be married afore another fortnight, can ye? I s’pose you’ll lend me a hand until you shift?”
“I bain’t a-goin’ to shift. I bain’t a-goin’ to get wed, I bain’t—” He paused, his lip trembling for a moment piteously like a child’s. “It is all a mistake, maister—there bain’t no money there.”
“Dear to be sure,” cried Farmer Inkpen.
Olf stood gazing at him. There was a dimness about his eyes, and he bit his lips to stop their quivering.
Mr. Inkpen’s loud exclamation caused the women-folk to appear on the scene, and in a moment the entire household was assembled and plying Olf with questions.