"Come here, Jack," commanded Mary.
The boy rose and limped towards her sobbing, not at all unwilling to make capital out of his misfortunes. A furrow of pink, washed clean by tears, ran down his muddy face. He held one hand across his bleeding ear.
"What has he been doing, Waite?"
"He's an idle, good-for-nowt. Back end o' ten o'clock I sent him up to get the cart forked up wi' swedes, and as he never comed and never comed, I had t' come up mysen and see what's wrong, and here he was, with nowt to say, and nowt done."
"Did you ask him why?"
"Ay. That I did and all." Waite plucked a turnip from the pie with his long handled fork and flung it into the cart.
Mary was quietly examining the boy's injuries. His shoulder was bruised and his ear inflamed, but her opportune arrival had prevented further damage.
For a little while she did not speak. Her mind was again with Mr. David Rossitur, and his plea for the independence of the labouring class, and for a wider recognition of the innate dignity of human nature. Then she spoke slowly, almost as though addressing herself alone.
"Oh. So you sent a boy up to do work you are supposed to do yourself, and expect him to manage a horse, and to fork turnips into a cart he is too small to reach and, because he couldn't do it, you came and beat him, did you? And thought that no one would see? You know we don't beat boys at Anderby. Jack has only just started to work. I wonder what sort of opinion he has of farm life."
Waite continued to throw turnips into the cart. They fell from his fork with dull little thuds, punctuating Mary's speech.