"Ugh," growled Eli. "Ye talk o' women, Dawson, but ye'd any of you sell your souls for a bit o' dinner up at Mrs. Robson's. She knows how t' manage you all—coals an' Christmas pudding—an' then there'll be no grumblin' about wages at Martinmas."
"Tha eats dinner there tha'sen fast enough, Eli, when tha's chance."
"Ay. Chance is a bonny thing."
Eli turned upon the Shepherd. "Chance is a bonny thing wi' you, Shep, and Mary Robson—going following her aboot like a gawking lad, as if tha' hadn't wenches enough wi'out your master's woman."
"What's that?" Dawson's one eye suddenly opened.
"Ah only said tha' hadn't much self-respect, sucking up t' gentry," said Eli, retreating hastily.
"Ay. Tha'd better only say yon. Ah thowt mebbe it was a matter o' summat else."
"So did I, indade," broke in a sharp Irish voice from an obscure corner. A little, black haired man came forward and placed his glass on the table. "If you have anything to say about Mrs. Robson at all, you'll just have the goodness to step outside the door and repate it to me, slow and careful."
"Ah've no call to answer for my words to a drunken Irish harvester who stays beyond his times."
"Noo then, Mike," interposed Dawson. "Doant take on. Eli didn't mean nowt. 'E's been like a bear wi' a sore head ever since his missus hasn't been well like. Anderby air don't suit him like that out at Market Burton, does it, Eli?"