It was a bright, hot, August Saturday, as we have said, and it was market day. Furthermore, it was half-past two in the afternoon, and the guests at Mr. Furze's had just finished their dinner. Mr. Furze was the largest ironmonger in Eastthorpe, and sold not only ironmongery, but ploughs and all kinds of agricultural implements. At the back of the shop was a small foundry where all the foundry work for miles round Eastthorpe was done. It was Mr. Furze's practice always to keep a kind of open house on Saturday, and on this particular day, at half-past two, Mr. Bellamy, Mr. Chandler, Mr. Gosford, and Mr. Furze were drinking their whiskey-and-water and smoking their pipes in Mr. Furze's parlour. The first three were well-to-do farmers, and with them the whiskey-and-water was not a pretence. Mr. Furze was a tradesman, and of a different build. Strong tobacco and whiskey at that hour and in that heat were rather too much for him, and he played with his pipe and drank very slowly. The conversation had subsided for a while under the influence of the beef, Yorkshire pudding, beer, and spirits, when Mr. Bellamy observed-- "Old Bartlett's widow still a-livin' up at the Croft?" "Yes," said Mr. Gosford, after filling his pipe again and pausing for at least a minute, "Bartlett's dead." "Bartlett wur a slow-coach," observed Mr. Chandler, after another pause of a minute, "so wur his mare. I mind me I wur behind his mare about five years ago last Michaelmas, and I wur well-nigh perished. I wur a- goin' to give her a poke with my stick, and old Bartlett says, 'Doan't hit her, doan't hit her; yer can't alter her.'" The three worthy farmers roared with laughter, Mr. Furze smiling gently. "That was a good 'un," said Mr. Bellamy. "Ah," replied Chandler, "I mind that as well as if it wur yesterday." Mr. Bellamy at this point had to leave, and Mr. Furze was obliged to attend to his shop. Gosford and Chandler, however, remained, and Gosford continued the subject of Bartlett's widow. "What's she a-stayin' on for up there?" "Old Bartlett's left her a goodish bit." "She wur younger than he." A dead silence of some minutes. "She ain't a-goin' to take the Croft on herself," observed Gosford. "Them beasts of the squire's," replied Chandler, "fetched a goodish lot. Scaled just over ninety stone apiece." "Why doan't you go in for the widow, Chandler?" Mr. Chandler was a widower. "Eh!" (with a nasal tone and a smile)--"bit too much for me." "Too much? Why, there ain't above fourteen stone of her. Keep yer warm o' nights up at your cold place." Mr. Chandler took the pipe out of his mouth, put it inside the fender, compressed his lips, rubbed his chin, and looked up to the ceiling. "Well, I must be a-goin'." "I suppose I must too," and they both went their ways, to meet again at tea-time.