“Andrew Randle, here’s yours—finish thanking me in a day or two. Temperance Miller—oh, here’s another, Soberness—both women I suppose?”
“Yes’m. Here we be, ’a b’lieve,” was echoed in shrill unison.
“What have you been doing?”
“Tending thrashing-machine and wimbling haybonds, and saying ‘Hoosh!’ to the cocks and hens when they go upon your seeds, and planting Early Flourballs and Thompson’s Wonderfuls with a dibble.”
“Yes—I see. Are they satisfactory women?” she inquired softly of Henery Fray.
“Oh mem—don’t ask me! Yielding women—as scarlet a pair as ever was!” groaned Henery under his breath.
“Sit down.”
“Who, mem?”
“Sit down.”
Joseph Poorgrass, in the background twitched, and his lips became dry with fear of some terrible consequences, as he saw Bathsheba summarily speaking, and Henery slinking off to a corner.