Hazel hesitated.
'Never tell him,' she added, 'unless he asks a deal and canna rest.'
'He may ask till Doomsday,' said Vessons, 'and he may be restless as the ten thousand ghosses that trapse round Undern when the moon's low, but I'll ne'er tell 'im.'
Hazel sighed, and turned to climb the hill.
'A missus at Undern!' said Andrew to the cob's ears as they trotted home. 'No, never will I!'
A magpie rose from a wood near the road, jibing at him. He looked round almost as if it had been someone laughing at his resolve, and repeated, 'Never will I!'
'Where's Hazel?' asked Reddin.
'Neither wild 'orses, nor blood 'orses, nor race 'orses nor cart 'orses, nor Suffolk punches—' began Vessons whose style was cumulative, and who, when he had made a good phrase, was apt to work it to death like any other artist. 'Oh, you're drunk, Vessons!' said his master.
'Shall drag it from me,' finished Vessons.
Reddin knew this was true, and felt rather hopeless. Still, he determined not to give up the search until he had found Hazel.