With a louder sob Lizzie let go her hold and tottered back into a
chair, laughing hysterically. The Bryanite leaned against the table,
panting.
There was a long pause. Mrs. Joll took a napkin from the dresser and
fell to fanning the girl's face, then to slapping it briskly.
"Get up and lay the table," she commanded; "the preacher'll stay to
supper."
"Thank 'ee, ma'am, I don't care if I do," said he; and ten minutes
later they were all seated at supper and discussing the fall in wheat
in the most matter-of-fact voices. Only their faces twitched now and
again.
"I hear you had the preacher down to Joll's last night," said
Mendarva the Smith. "What'st think of en?"
"I can't make him out," was Taffy's colourless but truthful answer.
"He's a bellows of a man. I do hear he's heating up th' old Squire
Moyle's soul to knack an angel out of en. He'll find that a job and
a half. You mark my words, there'll be Dover over in your parish one
o' these days."
During work-hours Mendarva bestowed most of his talk on Taffy.
The Dane seldom opened his lips except to join in the anvil chorus--
"Here goes one--
Sing, sing, Johnny!
Here goes two--
Sing, Johnny, sing!
Whack'n till he's red,
Whack'n till he's dead,
And whop! goes the widow with
A brand new ring!"
And when the boy took a hammer and joined in he fell silent.
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