“That’s it—Polly Batten. That day she had it in for you with a hay-fork—’time we was all hayin’ at Smalldene—for stealin’ her man.”
“But you heered me tell her she had my leave to keep him?” Mrs. Ashcroft’s voice and smile were smoother than ever.
“I did—an’ we was all looking that she’d prod the fork spang through your breastes when you said it.”
“No-oo. She’d never go beyond bounds—Polly. She shruck too much for reel doin’s.”
“Allus seems to me,” Mrs. Fettley said after a pause, “that a man ’twixt two fightin’ women is the foolishest thing on earth. ’Like a dog bein’ called two ways.”
“Mebbe. But what set ye off on those times, Liz?”
“That boy’s fashion o’ carryin’ his head an’ arms. I haven’t rightly looked at him since he’s growed. Your Jane never showed it, but—him! Why, ’tis Jim Batten and his tricks come to life again!... Eh?”
“Mebbe. There’s some that would ha’ made it out so—bein’ barren-like, themselves.”
“Oho! Ah well! Dearie, dearie me, now!... An’ Jim Batten’s been dead this——”
“Seven and twenty years,” Mrs. Ashcroft answered briefly. “Won’t ye draw up, Liz?”