“Well, it’s like this: a man med win or a man med lose, there’s no telling about the case; but I be dang’d well sure o’ this, missus, he’ll lose his money: I wish master had chucked her up long agoo.”
This opinion was not encouraging; and perceiving that the subject troubled Mrs. Bumpkin more than she liked to confess, he asked a question which was of more immediate importance to himself, and that was in reference to Polly Sweetlove.
“Why, thee’ll make her look at thee now, I’ll warrant; thy clothes fit thee as though they growed on thee.”
“Do she walk with the baker?” inquired Joe, with trembling accents.
“I never heeard so, an’ it’s my belief she never looked at un wi’ any meaning. I’ve seen her many a time comin’ down the Green Lane by herself and peepin’ over th’ gate.”
“Now look at that!” said Joe; “and when I was here I couldn’t get Polly to come near the farm—allays some excuse—did you ever speak to her about me, missus?”
“I ain’t going to tell tales out of school, Joe, so there.”
“Now look at that,” said Joe; “here’s a chap comes all this way and you won’t tell him anything.”
Mrs. Bumpkin laughed, and went on rolling the dough, and told him what a nice dumpling she was making, and how he would like it, and asked how long he was going to stop, and hoped it would be a month, and was telling him all about the sheep and the cows