As soon as Dale went to order his gig the clumsy facetiousness was renewed.
"'Tes a pity you ben't a hound yersel, Mr. Allen."
"Ah," said Veale, "if the wood pucks cud transform him on to all fours, what a farder he'd mek to th' next litter o' pops at the Kennels."
"By gum," said the earth-digger, slapping his leg, "they pups would have noses. They wuddent never be at fault, would 'em?"
Old Mrs. Goudie, who had a simple taste in raillery, was so convulsed by this jesting that she put down her tray in order to laugh at ease; and chiefly because she was laughing, Mary laughed also.
"An' you know most o' the tricks o' foxes too, don't you, Mr. Allen?"
"Now then," said Dale, returning, "that's enough, my lads. I dropped you the hint by now. You're welcome to as much more of my beer as you can carry, but you won't sauce my friends inside my gates—nor outside, either, if I chance to be there."
"Aw right, sir."
"Take no heed of them," said Allen. "It is only their ignorance;" and he staggered to his feet.
Dale escorted the honored guest to the gig, then wiped his perspiring face, lighted a pipe; and then reproved Mary and Mrs. Goudie for unseemly mirth.