"Which it isn't," laughed Rivers.
"And my tea!—Then here comes in the Squire to get a dog-collar, and roars to my poor deaf Job, 'that last tea was the best we have ever had. Send five pounds to Dr. McGregor from me—charge it to me—and a pound to Mrs. Lamb.' It wasn't but ten minutes later. Do set down, Mr. Rivers." He accepted the chair she dusted with her apron and quietly enjoyed the little drama. The facts were plain, the small influential motives as clear.
Secure of her hearer, Mrs. Crocker went on: "I was saying it wasn't ten minutes later that same morning Mrs. Penhallow came down on me about the sugar and the tea—worst she ever had. She—oh, Lord!—She wouldn't listen, and declared that she would return the tea and get sugar from town."
"Pretty bad that," said Rivers, sympathetic. "Did she send back the tea?"
"No, sir. In came Pole grinning that very evening. He said she had made an awful row about the last leg of mutton he sent. Pole said she was that bad—She didn't show no temper, but she kept on a sort of quiet mad about the mutton."
"Well, what did Pole do?"
"You'd never guess. It was one of the Squire's own sheep. Pole he just sent her the other leg of the same sheep!"
Again the rector laughed. "Well, and what did Mrs. Penhallow do?"
"She told him that was all right. Pole he guessed I'd better send her a pound of the same tea."
"Did you?"