“No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter.
“You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.”
“No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations.
“Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’ for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’ don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’ you to go a-puttin’ your word in.”
“’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—”
“Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself, whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’ arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’ arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.”
“Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.”
Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing.
“On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap as you among my folk for a hundred pound.”
“If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny, endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity.