Mrs. Frisby rubbed her shrivelled hands together, and sighed.
“Ah, ’tis hard,” she said; “’tis hard, sure.”
And then silence fell between the old couple, and each consumed their meagre fare without any great appearance of appetite.
Presently Joseph set down his cup, pushed back his chair, and stood up.
“Where be goin’?” asked his wife querulously. “I never seed such a fidget of a man.”
“I’m goin’ up to the ’lotments,” he responded curtly.
“Laive me a pail o’ water first, do, so as I can be washin’ up. I reckoned ye’d ha’ helped me a bit to-night—rheumatics is terrible bad.”
Joseph took up the pail without a word and went out; presently an excruciating creaking and squeaking was heard as he turned the rusty handle of the windlass.
After some time he hobbled back, the water splashing from the overflowing bucket at every step.
“Dear! what a mess the man d’ make!” groaned Mrs. Frisby. “Carry it studdy, for the Lard’s sake. Now sit down, do ’ee, an’ gi’e me a hand.”