"Just this--my wife's gone wrang wi' a gentleman. I could ha' borne it better if he'd hed rough talk an' a rough pair o' hands." Rachel stiffened her dwarfed old body. "An' who may it be, Joe?" "Griff Lummax, out to Marshcotes Manor. I knew how it 'ud be when th' mother--th' girt, ugly man of a figure--got coming it ower Kate." The blue-green eyes shot fire. "Then why didn't tha get him by t' throat, and squeeze th' life out on his body?" "'Cos he's ower strong," growled Joe. "Ower strong, ower strong!" flashed the crone. "I didn't talk i' that way when I hed th' use of my body an' wits. Tha'rt noan o' my flesh, Joe--no, nor bone o' my bone, nawther--shame on thee, lad, for a shammocky nowt of a man." She pushed her skinny face close up to his. "Dost mind what Joshua Lummax, Griff's father, did to thy mother five an' thirty year agone?" Her voice crackled and hissed like the fall of water on live coal. "Dost mind how he came wi' his fine airs, just same as th' son hes done to thy wife, an' witched th' heart out on her? Dost'a know i' what fashion I sarved him?" "Tha did nowt," muttered Joe, surlily; "tha gabbled an' gabbled for a fearful deal o' years, an' th' cold took him off i' th' end. Dunnot thee talk to me till tha's getten summat to show for t' to-do tha'rt making." Still closer the lean face pressed to his. She whispered something in his ear, and he glared at her with an admiration touched by fear. "Art 'a leeing, mother?" he demanded. "Leeing? No, by God! I hed my rights i' th' end, an' th' lass sleeps quiet i' her grave. Thee see to thy own porridge, Joe. I'm ower owd to cook for other fowk." "Tha'rt a sight fuller i' th' wit nor me, owd or young. What mun I do, mother?" "Do? Kill him, I tell thee, an' off wi' them Lummax peacocks for gooid an' all. That's th' porridge _tha_ hes to cook." "She came it high an' mighty ower me, did Mrs. Lummax; reckoned she'd gie me a bit o' stick, she did. More nor once her son hes hed th' laugh on me, i' sight o' all th' Marshcotes fowk. I owe him a two or three hard knocks--ay, that I do." "Then gie 'em, tha lout! Childless am I this day--not counting a six ha'porth o' copper like thee--an' childless tha'll mak th' Lummax woman. Ower strong, is he? Lig i' a hedge-bottom, then, an' crack his skull wi' a pickaxe." Joe kicked at the smouldering peat, but his face showed no responsive enthusiasm. "Tha itches to see me dangling at th' end on a hangman's rope, that's easy to be seen. Dost 'a think a plain man can kill gentlefowk same as he'd lake at a bit o' pigeon-shooiting, an' niver hear no more on't?"