“Good Sampson” looked, snorted, danced, plunged and careered; and then came up and let Mrs. Bumpkin stroke and pat him; while Bumpkin looked on, smoking his pipe peacefully, and thinking what a fine fellow he, the bull, was, and what a great man he, Bumpkin, must be to be the possessor of “sich!”
Thus the peaceful afternoon would glide quietly and sweetly away, and so would the bull, after the interesting interview was over.
They always returned in time for tea, and then Mrs. Bumpkin would go to evening service, while Mr. Bumpkin would wait for her on the little piece of green near the church, where neighbours used to meet and chat of a Sunday evening; such as old Mr. Gosling, the market gardener, and old Master Mott, the head gardener to the Squire, and Master Cole, the farmer, and various others, the original inhabitants of Yokelton; discussing
the weather and the crops, the probability of Mr. Tomson getting in again at the vestry as waywarden; what kind of a highway rate there would be for the coming year; how that horse got on that Mr. Sooby bought at the fair; and various other matters of importance to a village community. They would also pass remarks upon any striking personage who passed them on his way to church. Mr. Prigg, for instance, the village lawyer, who, they said, was a remarkably upright and down-straight sort of man; although his wife, they thought, was “a little bit stuck up like” and gave herself airs a little different from Mrs. Goodheart, who would “always talk to ’em jist the same as if she was one o’ th’ people.” So that, on the whole, they entertained themselves very amicably until such time as the “organ played the people out of church.” Then every one looked for his wife or daughter, as the case might be, and wished one another good night: most of them having been to church in the morning, they did not think it necessary to repeat the performance in the evening.
CHAPTER III.
Showing how true it is that it takes at least two to make a bargain or a quarrel.
The day after the events which I have recorded, while the good farmer and his wife were at breakfast, which was about seven o’clock, Joe presented himself in the sitting-room, and said:
“Plase, maister, here be t’ money for t’ pig.”
“Money for t’ pig,” exclaimed Mr. Bumpkin; “what’s thee mean, lad? what pig?”
“Maister Snooks!” said Joe, “there ur be, gwine wi’ t’ pig in t’ barrer.”