The news soon spread all over the village that both Rebecca and Bithey intended to compete for the strange new-fangled prize that was to be given at the forthcoming show. Opinions were pretty evenly divided as to the respective merits of the two aspirants, but much amusement was caused by the seriousness and pertinacity with which each old lady advanced her claims.
On the Sunday following Charl’ mischievously brought the rivals into contact by calling back Rebecca just as she had haughtily walked past Bithey on leaving church.
“Come here, Beck, for one minute. Here’s Bithey won’t believe you are any older nor her.”
Rebecca turned, eyeing Tabitha up and down somewhat disdainfully.
“Ye may believe it or not, as ye please,” she said, “but you was a little maid goin’ to school when I was out in service.”
“What does she say?” inquired Tabitha, turning to one of the bystanders—for quite a little crowd had gathered around the two.
“She says you are no age at all worth countin’,” bawled Charl’. “She ’lows you be quite a little maid still.”
“Little maid, indeed!” retorted Bithey. “I know I must be seventy if I’m a day, and I’m a’most sure I’m a good bit more nor that. Why, I be getting that weak in the limbs I can scarce get about.”
“Anybody mid get weak in the limbs!” cried Rebecca wrathfully. “’Tisn’t no sign of age, that isn’t. When I did come to live at Thorncombe Farm, twelve or fifteen years ago, I was a staid body, as anybody mid see; but you—you was quite fresh and well-lookin’. I can mind it well. You did come up to our place for a bit o’ lard soon arter I did get there, and you was as straight and as active and as smooth and chuffy in the face—”
“Dear, dear! however can ye go for to tell sich tales, Rebecca?” groaned Bithey, much scandalised. “I can mind that day so well as you, and I can mind as you did offer to carry the lard for me as far as the gate, for, says you, ‘You do look mortal tired for sure,’ says you; ‘and ’tis a long way to carry it and you not bein’ so young as you was’.”