Mr. Bumpkin made a suitable reply—that is to say, “he wur mighty proud o’ their neighbourliness—he wur a plaain man, as had made his own way in the world, or leastwise tried to do un by ard work and uprightedness and downstraightedness; tried to be straight forrerd, and nobody as he knowed of could ax un for a shillin’. But,” he added: “I be praisin oop myself, neighbours, I be afeard, and I doant wish to do thic, only to put I straaight afore thee. I beant dead yit, and I hope we shall all be friends and neighbours, and meet many moore times at this ornary together.”
And so, delighted with one another, after a glass or two, and a song or two, the party broke up, all going to their several farms. Mr. Bumpkin was particularly well pleased, for he had sold twenty quarters of wheat at forty-nine shillings a quarter; which, as times went, was a very considerable increase, showing the excellent quality of the samples.
Sooner or later, however, it must be told, that when Bumpkin reached his quiet farm, a strange and sad scene presented itself. Evidences of “the man” were in all directions. He had been at work while Mr. Bumpkin in his convivial moments was protesting that he did not
owe anyone a shilling. Alas! how little the best of as know how much we owe!
Mrs. Bumpkin, who had borne up like a true woman through all the troubles that had come upon her home,—borne up for his sake, hoping for better days, and knowing nothing of the terrible net that had been spread around them by the wily fowler, at length gave way, as she saw “the man” loading his cart with her husband’s wheat; the wheat he had gone that day to sell. Bitterly she wrung her hands, and begged him to spare her husband that last infliction. Was there anything that she could do or give to save him this blow? No, no; the man was obstinate in the performance of his duty; “right was right, and wrong was no man’s right!”
So when Mr. Bumpkin returned, the greater part of his wheat was gone, and the rest was being loaded. The beautiful rick of hay too, which had not yet ceased to give out the fresh scent that a new rick yields, were being cut and bound into trusses.
Poor Tom was fairly beside himself, but Mrs. Bumpkin had taken the precaution to hide the gun and the powder-flask, for she could not tell what her husband might do in his distraction. Possibly she was right. Tom’s rage knew no bounds. Youth itself seemed to be restored in the strength of his fury. He saw dimly the men standing around looking on; he saw, as in a dream, the man cutting on the rick, and he uttered incoherent sentences which those only understood who were accustomed to his provincial accent.
“Tom, Tom,” said Mrs. Bumpkin, “don’t be in a rage.”
“Who be thic feller on my rick?”
“I beant any more a feller nor thee, Maister Boompkin; it aint thy rick nuther.”