The miller had turned to go, but he faced about with ready anger.
"Lord, yes, and a pretty pickle you and your gaffer's like to make of me. Wad ye credit it, John? they've built their smelting-house within half a rod of my mill. Half a rod; not a yard mair. When your red-hot rubbish is shot down your bank, where's it going to go, ey? That's what I want to know—where's it going to go?"
"Why, into your mill, of course," said Gubblum, with a wink, from the tool-chest. "That'll maybe help you to go by fire when you can't raise the wind."
"Verra good for thee, Gubblum," laughed the blacksmith.
"I'll have the law on them safe enough," said the miller.
"And where's your damages to come from?"
"From the same spot as all the rest of the brass—that's good enough for me."
Matthew's voice followed the insinuating guffaw.
"I spoke to Master Hugh yesterday. I telt him all you said about a wall."
"Well?"