“Nay, now,” said Farmer Joyce, sinking his voice, but still speaking with the air of mild expostulation which had characterised his former remarks. “She don’t bear ’ee no grudge, man, not she. She be all for doin’ ’ee a good turn, I tell ’ee. Says she to me last night, ‘We must gi’ shepherd help,’ she says, ‘else he’ll ne’er get through wi’ the lambin’ this year. He desarves consideration,’ she says. ‘He’s worked for ’ee faithful all his life. We mus’n’t let un drop in ’arness,’ says she. Them be her very words, shepherd.”
Robbins continued to rub his hands, but without any appearance of gratification. Mr. Joyce coughed, stuck his pitchfork in the ground, but almost immediately took it out again. He seemed to find some difficulty in proceeding.
“Them was her very words,” he resumed, however, presently. “‘He mus’n’t be allowed to drop in ’arness. We shall be four shillin’ a week out o’ pocket, but Shepherd Robbins do desarve it,’ she says.”
The farmer paused again. It takes some little time for a new idea to penetrate into the inner consciousness of a Dorset rustic, but after a few moments Robbins seemed to grasp this one, and a gleam came into his faded eyes.
“Four shillin’ a week,” he repeated. “What kind o’ chap be you a-goin’ to get for that money, master? Why, the lads ’nd scarce frighten the crows for that.”
The farmer coughed again and gently prodded the ground with his pitchfork, watching the operation with apparently intent interest for a moment or two. Then he slowly raised his eyes.
“He’ll be a-gettin’ eight shillin’ a week, shepherd. Ye see, ’tis this way. We be a-payin’ you twelve shillin’ now, we be.”
Robbins nodded. He had ceased to rub his hands, but stood with the palms still tightly pressed together.
“Well, ye see, we didn’t a-grudge it ye. Ye was wuth it to us, shepherd—while ye was strong an’ hearty ye was wuth it to us,” he repeated handsomely. “But now, ye bain’t fit for much, and that’s the trewth; ’tis no fault o’ yourn, but ye bain’t. We lost a terrible lot o’ lambs last year. Ye be too stiff in your joints to get about quick, an’ ye can’t get through your work. It comes hard on we, ye see, to be payin’ out good money an’ not gettin’ the money value—an’ it comes hard on you too, now ye be a-gettin’ into years, shepherd, to be strivin’ an’ contrivin’ like, an’ bibberin’ in the frostiss an’ snow stuff, an standin’ out o’ nights when the rheumatics is bad. ’Tis cruel hard for ye, shepherd.”
“Ay, sure,” agreed Robbins more readily than usual. He did not in the least see the drift of the farmer’s argument, but felt that the last proposition was indubitably true.