“He fell into a ditch once,” resumed Mr Ellery, with stern sarcasm. “Was it a ditch this time, or did he chance to knock himself against a wall?”
“He tripped over a log of wood,” returned Mrs Crumpler, diffidently; and the laughter of the bystanders began afresh.
“Here, you folks,” shouted the farmer, raising himself in his stirrups, “what are you all idling about for? Because one man’s an idle, good-for-nothing chap, are you all to lose your time? I’m going to make an example of George Crumpler, and I’ll make an example of everyone what thinks he can play the fool and treat me this way. Stand out of my way, Mrs Crumpler—you know very well, and George knows very well, what he has to expect. I told him plain the last time he went drinking that if ever I lost another day’s work through him I’d send him packing. So he needn’t trouble himself to come here again. Let go of my rein.”
But Mrs Crumpler clutched it fast.
“Please ye, sir,” she said firmly, “there’s no occasion for ye to be at the loss of a day’s work along o’ Crumpler bein’ laid-up—I be come to take his place.”
“What,” cried Ellery, “you!”
“E-es, sir,” rejoined Mrs Crumpler with a kind of modest assurance. “I can work just so well as he. There’s nothin’ what he do do as I can’t do if ye’ll let me try.”
“Can ye drive a hayrake, then?” cried the farmer, with a laugh that was half-fierce and half-amused.
“Not a hayrake, no, sir,” rejoined the little woman after a moment’s reflection; “I shouldn’t like for to undertake a hayrake—but a cart or a waggon—I d’ ’low I could drive either o’ them just so well as anybody. And I could use a hand-rake, or I could toss up hay wi’ a pitchfork.”
“Yes, you’ve got such fine long arms, haven’t you?” rejoined Ellery, eyeing her diminutive proportions.