“Yes, ma’am, but he’s not yet come home. He promised to be back by six.”
“It wants a quarter to six at present,” said Bathsheba, looking at her watch. “I daresay he’ll be in directly. Well, now then”—she looked into the book—“Joseph Poorgrass, are you there?”
“Yes, sir—ma’am I mane,” said the person addressed. “I be the personal name of Poorgrass.”
“And what are you?”
“Nothing in my own eye. In the eye of other people—well, I don’t say it; though public thought will out.”
“What do you do on the farm?”
“I do do carting things all the year, and in seed time I shoots the rooks and sparrows, and helps at pig-killing, sir.”
“How much to you?”
“Please nine and ninepence and a good halfpenny where ’twas a bad one, sir—ma’am I mane.”
“Quite correct. Now here are ten shillings in addition as a small present, as I am a new comer.”