"Ay. Wust turn old Granger ever did to Anderby was dying like that an' letting Willerby take his farm."
"I thowt Willerby was a decent, quiet sort o' chap. 'E doant say much, but 'e could do worse nor that."
"Nay, but yon's not trouble."
Dawson took a pull at his pipe and hazarded grimly:
"It's a woman ah'll be bound."
"Ay. I said to Wilson, 'Ow'd ye come on wi' missus these days?' Ah says. And he gives me one o' them there slow, considerable looks like, an' says, 'She doant like rattens getting in among 'er chickens.' 'E does fowls up at Willerby's does Wilson.' 'Well,' ah says, 'nor does other folks, but it's all fortunes o' war.' 'It's fortunes o' war when it's other people's chickens,' says 'e. 'But it's danged carelessness o' some one else's when they're your own. Missus is a bad loser,' 'e says. 'Why, she bain't mean, is she, Ted?' ah says. 'Mean?' 'e says. You know that way 'e has o' waiting to let you get one word well chewed before 'e gives you 'tother. 'Oh no. She's not mean. She'd only steal t' shroud off her mother's corpse, an' then take on because it wouldn't wash!'"
"Ay," murmured Dawson sagely. "There's nowt so queer as folks."
"Except women, Shep," jeered Waite.
"Then what wages will they be giving up at Willerby's?" asked Bert Armstrong, feeling that as the only farmer present he ought to show a decent interest in the affairs of his new neighbours.
"Same as anyone else's. Same as Robson's. But when you get no bits o' beef, nor packets o' tea, nor nursing if you're sick, you can soon tell t' difference. Ah can tell you, Wilson says 'e won't stay after Martinmas unless things tak' up a bit."