"You always wur queer about Boarzell. But your fäather 'ud turn in his grave to think of you sending off Blackman."
"He'll easily git another pläace—I'll find him one myself. And, mother—there's something more. Now you haven't got fäather to work fur, you'll find the time unaccountable long. Wot if you let Becky go, and did the cooking and that yourself?"
"Oh, Reuben...."
"You shouldn't ought to ask mother that," said Harry. "She 'äun't used to work. It's well enough fur you and me, we're strong chaps, and there's no reason we shouldn't pull to a bit. But mother, she'd never do wudout the girl—you see, there's the dairy and the fowls as well as the house."
"We could help her out of doors."
"Lard!—you want some work!"
Reuben sprang to his feet. "Yes—I do! You're justabout right there. I'm starved fur work. I've never really worked in my life, and now I want to work till I drop. Look at my arm"—and he showed them his brown hairy arm, where the muscles swelled in lumps under the skin—"that's a workman's arm, and it's never worked yet—präaperly. You let me send off Blackman and Becky, and see how we manage wudout 'em. I'll do most of the work myself, I promise you. I couldn't have too much."
"You're a queer lad, Reuben—and more masterful than your poor fäather wur."
"Yes—I'm master here." He sat down, and looked round the table quite calmly. A vague uneasiness disturbed Mrs. Backfield and Harry. For some unfathomable reason they both felt a little afraid of Reuben.