“Well, but they do say now as the Queen didn’t say nothin’,” said somebody ruefully.
The lights were being blown out, the flags removed; people were returning homewards. Mrs. Stuckhey, still unconvinced and irate, was constrained to follow their example, clutching her little sixpenny flag in its paper wrapper.
“Lard! how awful molloncolly that there bell do sound,” groaned Mrs. Blanchard dolefully. “Dear, to be sure, a body mid think as it were tollin’ for a funeral.”
“There, my dear, don’t ’ee talk so foolish,” responded Susan with some acerbity. “’Tis but the ringers as has left the ropes a-swingin’. I should be ashamed, Mary Blanchard, to go a-givin’ way like that, and you with all them childern, as ought to know better.”
“I be that nervish, d’ye see. Lard, I do feel shaky all over. I have a kind o’ porsentiment as summat have a-happened—that I have, and I can’t say no different, Mrs. Stuckhey, not if it be to please you.”
At this moment the pair were overtaken by a stout, elderly man, who, recognising them as he passed, turned to greet the person whom the news might be supposed to concern most nearly.
“Good evenin’ to ’ee, Mrs. Stuckhey; this here be very disapp’intin’, bain’t it?”
Susan responded with a little “dip,” for Farmer Joyce was the principal inhabitant of Riverton.
“E-es, sir, it be a bit disapp’intin’, I d’ ’low, but I reckon we’ll be hearin’ to-morrow as the good noos be true, and ’tis but the War Office what have made a mistake.”
“I dunno, I’m sure,” returned the farmer, heaving a deep sigh. “Them there Boers be a queer lot. I did never hear tell o’ sich folks. They do seem to be here, there, and everywhere, all at once as mid be—poppin’ up jist same as rabbits in warren. Ah,” he cried, delighted with his own simile, and anxious if possible to improve it, “it be jist same as if our troops were a-fightin’ o’ rabbits—rabbits wi’ guns,” he added with a chuckle.