“What be ye a-wanting?” he asked, scratching his beard with a black thumb nail.
Isaac was frowning and looking fierce and out of humor.
“Come down, lad, I ain’t going to bellow at ye.”
Dan climbed down and stood with one hand on the ladder, staring inquisitively into his father’s face. It was not often that Isaac’s complacency was ruffled by a grievance. His arbitrary nature found few foul winds to trouble him in Pevensel.
“What’s amiss, dad?”
“That damned old she-dog Ursula’s in a pet.”
Dan grunted sympathetically.
“She be growing daft fast,” he said.
“So I say, lad, but the old fool has a tongue, and a meddlesome tongue, too, bad blood to her. She might be doing us a deal of harm unless we quiet her silly old soul.”
“What be Ursula whining for?”