“Of course,” echoed Jess, staring a little blankly however. He did not expect that Mr Old would accept his resignation with so much promptness and such evident placidity.
The farmer now produced a greasy leather purse and counted out the sum of twelve shillings and nine pence.
He doled out the last-named fraction in pennies, and as each chinked upon his palm Jess’s countenance fell more and more.
“I don’t know but what I’ve let ye have a bit over,” observed Mr Old, with a dubious look. “’Tis a bit ar’kard to make a calculation all in a minute like this. But there, you’ve worked for me nigh upon ten year now; I’ll not be too close wi’ ye.”
Jess pocketed the coins and shambled away without speaking. After twenty paces or so, however, he turned. Nobody was looking after him; his late master was now plying his own discarded rake; his former comrades were working with the same fury of zeal which had seized them from the instant of Mr Old’s appearance. At the sight, Jess’s long-gathering fury broke forth.
“So that’s how you treat I!” he exclaimed. “Me, what’s worked for ’ee ten year. You do pack me off wi’out a word. Ees, n’arn o’ ’ee has so much as a word to throw at I, what’s done my best an’ worked along o’ ye these years and years.”
Martin Fry glanced up with a stricken look, but apparently found nothing to say; somebody did murmur inarticulately that he was sure he wished Jess well, an’ couldn’t say no more nor that, but none of the others could be said to respond to his appeal. Farmer Old gazed at him with apparent amazement.
“Ye be a-plaisin’ of yerself, b’ain’t ye?” he enquired. “Ye be a-goin’ on strike to plaise yerself?” Jess rallied his pride.
“In course I be, but I be a-goin’ on strike along o’ bein’ treated so bad.”
“Well, ye’ll not ha’ no more bad treatment to complain on now,” returned Old. “Ye be a-plaisin’ o’ yerself, as I do say. I do like folks to plaise theirselves.”