“Middlin’, sir. And ’ow are you and Mrs. Craddock?”
“I’m all right—the Missus is having a baby, you know.”
He spoke in the jovial, careless way which necessarily endeared him to the whole world.
“Bless my soul, is she indeed, sir—and I knew you when you was a boy! When d’you expect it?”
“I expect it every minute. Why, for all I know, I may be a happy father when I get back to tea.”
“You take it pretty cool, governor,” said Farmer Jones, who had known Edward in the days of his poverty.
“Me?” cried Edward, laughing. “I know all about this sort of thing, you see. Why, look at all the calves I’ve had—and mind you, I’ve not had an accident with a cow above twice, all the time I’ve gone in for breeding.... But I’d better be going to see how the Missus is getting on. Good afternoon to you, Mrs. Jones.”
“Now what I like about the squire,” said Mrs. Jones, “is that there’s no ‘aughtiness in ’im. ’E ain’t too proud to take a cup of tea with you, although ’e is the squire now.”
“‘E’s the best squire we’ve ’ad for thirty years,” said Farmer Jones, “and, as you say, my dear, there’s not a drop of ’aughtiness in ‘im—which is more than you can say for his missus.”
“Oh well, she’s young-like,” replied his wife. “They do say as ’ow ’e’s the master, and I dare say ’e’ll teach ’er better.”