A hum of voices fell on his ear as he approached the farm; half the male and a goodly proportion of the female population of Little Haven were leaning against the fence or standing in little knots in the road, while a few of higher social status stood in the farm-yard itself.
“Come down to have a look at the prisoner?” inquired the farmer, who was standing surrounded by a little group of admirers.
“I came down to see you about that advice I gave you this afternoon,” said Mr. Quince.
“Ah!” said the other.
“I was busy when you came,” continued Mr. Quince, in a voice of easy unconcern, “and I gave you advice from memory. Looking up the subject after you’d gone I found that I was wrong.”
“You don’t say so?” said the farmer, uneasily. “If I’ve done wrong I’m only doing what you told me I could do.”
“Mistakes will happen with the best of us,” said the shoemaker, loudly, for the benefit of one or two murmurers. “I’ve known a man to marry a woman for her money before now and find out afterward that she hadn’t got any.”
One unit of the group detached itself and wandered listlessly toward the gate.