There was a long pause. Mrs. Joll took a napkin from the dresser and fell to fanning the girl's face, then to slapping it briskly. "Get up and lay the table," she commanded; "the preacher'll stay to supper."
"Thank 'ee, ma'am, I don't care if I do," said he; and ten minutes latter they were all seated at supper and discussing the fall in wheat in the most matter-of-fact voices. Only their faces twitched, now and again.
"I hear you had the preacher down to Joll's last night," said Mendarva the Smith. "What'st think of 'en?"
"I can't make him out," was Taffy's colorless but truthful answer.
"He's a bellows of a man. I do hear he's heating up th' old Squire Moyle's soul, to knack an angel out of 'en. He'll find that a job and a half. You mark my words, there'll be Hamlet's ghost over in your parish one o' these days."
During work-hours Mendarva bestowed most of his talk on Taffy. The Dane seldom opened his lips, except to join in the Anvil Chorus—
Here goes one—
Sing, sing, Johnny!
Here goes two—
Sing, Johnny, sing!