“A drawin’,” answered Tregennis, laconically. He was always a man of few words.
“A drawin’! My blessed fäather! an’ how much did ee pay?”
“Only sixpence, Ellen, an’ he weighs twelve pound.”
“Sixpence!” breathlessly. “I don’t know how ee dare take such risks. You might easily ’a’ lost, and ’twould just ’a’ been a good sixpenny-bit wasted.”
“But I didn’t lose, I won, an’ here do be the bird; an’ as plump a one as’ll be eaten by any o’ the best in Draeth.”
“Well, well,” said Mrs. Tregennis, and resumed her knitting, momentarily neglected; “an’ what a Christmas dinner we shall have—as good as the gintry! Go round now to wanst, an’ ask Granfäather, an’ Granny an’ Keziah Kate. We’ll mebbe never have another goose.”
After breakfast, therefore, on Christmas Eve the goose had to be plucked. Work for Tregeagle Mrs. Tregennis said this was, with Tommy playin’ round all the time, and all the feathers all a-blowin’ no one knew where every time the kitchen door was opened.
Tommy stuck the biggest feathers in his hair, and was a wild red Indian; some of the smaller, fluffier ones he put by in his box of treasures; all the rest Mammy tried to save to help to make a cushion for the upstairs sitting-room.
When Mrs. Tregennis was in the middle of cleaning the goose she was interrupted by a loud knock.
“See who’s there, Tommy,” she said, “an’ shut the kitchen door so as the feathers won’t fly.”