"Nonsense—you know we never give 'em cake or turnips, so what does it matter?"
"They äun't fit."
"I tell you they'll do well enough. I don't expect to get such prices for them as for that lot you've kept down in the New Innings, but they won't fetch much under, for I declare they're good meat. If we keep them over the winter we'll have to send them inland and pay no end for their grazing—and then maybe the price of mutton ull go down in the Spring."
"It ud be a fool's job to täake them."
"You say that because you don't want to have to fetch them up from the Salt Innings. I tell you you're getting lazy, Fuller."
"My old mäaster never called me that."
"Well, you work as well for me as you did for him, and I won't call you lazy, neither."
She gave him a conciliatory grin, but Fuller had been too deeply wounded for such easy balm. He turned and walked away, a whole speech written in the rebellious hunch of his shoulders.
"You'll get them beasts," she called after him.
"Surelye"—came in a protesting drawl. Then "Yup!—Yup!" to the two sheep dogs couched on the doorstep.