“Maaster’s over at Satanstown buying a calf. Can I give him your message?”
“Faather says as it’s taake it or leave it about them roots.”
“Then I reckon he’ll taake it. He never wur the man to higgle-haggle, and the roots is good roots.”
“Justabout valiant—I never got a tidier crop out of Podder’s field.”
Mrs. Putland had come to the door and stood looking at him, with her arms akimbo. She was a small, trim woman, buttoned and sleeked, and somehow the expression of her face was the same as the expression of the house—the clean, kindly, enquiring look of Egypt with its white-framed staring windows and smooth, ruddy tiles.
“It’ll be unaccountable sad fur your faather to lose you. You’ve bin the prop-stick of Worge this five year.”
“Can’t be helped. I’ve got to go. Had my calling-up paapers this mornun.”
“That’s queer. So did Bill. Reckon you’ll go together.”
“Didn’t Bill try fur exemption, then?”