The more harm the miller tried to do to James Grey, the more he wished to do. When he could, he or Ben or Sam let his cows into the farmer’s fields; and much mischief they did. Ben, too, who might often be met with a gun in his hands, shot the farmer’s game, and his rabbits and pigeons.
One day, a fine dog the farmer was very fond of, came into one of Mark Page’s fields. Mark had a gun in his hand, and shot the dog. Farmer Grey met Mark soon after this.
“You shot my dog, Trust, I am told,” said the farmer.
“Your dog came after my rabbits,” said Mark.
“Friend, did I say one word to man or boy when your son not only came to my fields, but shot well-nigh half a score of my rabbits and my hares?” asked the farmer. “You know he came.”
“I shoot all dogs that come to my fields,” said Mark, walking on, with his eyes on the ground, and a frown on his brow. He did not speak much that day when he got home. In the evening there was a breeze, and the mill went round and round quite rapidly. “I’ll not give in,” he said to Sam Green, as they sat on the steps of the mill, while the grist they had just put in was grinding. “Hold on to the last; that’s what I say. Farmer Grey wants to come it strong over me; but I’ll not let him.”
“All right, master; stick to that,” said Sam Green.
“So I will. He shan’t come it over me; that he shan’t,” growled the miller.
“‘When the wind blows
Then the mill goes;
When the wind drops,
Then the mill stops.’
“‘I care for nobody—no, not I,
If nobody cares for me.’”
“That’s it, master; that’s what I call the right thing; just proper pride,” said Sam, the miller’s man.