"There you are," pronounced Shepherd triumphantly, removing his pipe from his mouth to give greater effect to his words. "'Tis t' woman again. Get a bad 'un and a good farmer's nowt. Get a good 'un and t' farmer don't count."
"If you think so much o' them, Shep, why have you never married yourself?"
"Ah've never yet found a lass wi' a bit o' brass who'd have me. If ever ah does find one wi' same mind as myself, ah'll away get wed."
"Tha mun have her rich then?"
"Oh ay." Dawson knocked the ashes from his pipe and prepared to depart.
"But if she turns out a bad 'un?" pursued Bert, in quest of information.
"Well then, she'll still have 'er brass, and a fat sorrow's better t' bear than a lean sorrow."
The company stirred and smiled. Old Deane in the corner shook his head.
"Ay. But you don't find 'em like Mary Robson growing on every hedge bottom," he said.
Outside, the wind tore at the stacks and hedges in a shrieking hurricane. It snatched at Mike's hat, and whipped the sleet across his face. He had left early, for work, interrupted that day, began next morning at six, and the long nights were short enough after back-aching days in the sheep-fold.