‘Ho, ho! damn it, I must go then, I suppose,’ said Festus, laughing; and unable to get a further glance from her he left the room and clanked into the back yard, where he saw a man; holding up his hand he cried, ‘Anthony Cripplestraw!’
Cripplestraw came up in a trot, moved a lock of his hair and replaced it, and said, ‘Yes, Maister Derriman.’ He was old Mr. Derriman’s odd hand in the yard and garden, and like his employer had no great pretensions to manly beauty, owing to a limpness of backbone and speciality of mouth, which opened on one side only, giving him a triangular smile.
‘Well, Cripplestraw, how is it to-day?’ said Festus, with socially-superior heartiness.
‘Middlin’, considering, Maister Derriman. And how’s yerself?’
‘Fairish. Well, now, see and clean these military boots of mine. I’ll cock my foot up on this bench. This pigsty of my uncle’s is not fit for a soldier to come into.’
‘Yes, Maister Derriman, I will. No, ’tis not fit, Maister Derriman.’
‘What stock has uncle lost this year, Cripplestraw?’
‘Well, let’s see, sir. I can call to mind that we’ve lost three chickens, a tom-pigeon, and a weakly sucking-pig, one of a fare of ten. I can’t think of no more, Maister Derriman.’
‘H’m, not a large quantity of cattle. The old rascal!’
‘No, ’tis not a large quantity. Old what did you say, sir?’