Reuben spat.
"Yes—they couldn't pick any holes in his claim, or they would have, I reckon. The Squire 'ud like every rood of Boarzell, though the Lard knows wot he'll do wud it now he's got it."
"Your fäather must be in lamentable heart about all this, surelye."
The boy shrugged and frowned.
"He döan't care much. Fäather, he likes to be comfortable, and this Inclosure wöan't make much difference to that. 'Täun't as if we wanted the pasture badly, and Fäather he döan't care about land."
He dragged the last word a little slowly, and there was the faintest hint of a catch in his voice.
"And your mother, and Harry?"
"They döan't care, nuther—it's only me."
"Lard, boy!—and why should you care if they döan't?"
Reuben did not speak, but a dull red crept over the swarthiness of his cheeks, and he turned away.