“Is it? I should have thought ’twas six shillings a week would be the scandal.” Her eyes and cheeks blazed prettily, and she was beginning to shelve the idea of consulting her companion at the horse-market. “I don’t say you’re altogether wrong,” conceded Farmer Gale, admiring, despite himself, her fire and sparkle. “But it’s the Government that’s responsible. There was a great old meeting t’other day at Drury Lane Theatre in London. Two thousand people, if a man. The Duke of Richmond he up and said by Heaven we’ve got to have Protection, and we will have it. Oh, it was a grand speech. I went up for it express. And we’ve had a meeting of farmers down here, too, and we’re going to wake up the country, we Essex chaps.” “Are you?” said Jinny, secretly amused at this “furriner’s” complacent identification of himself with her county. “You wait! We’re going to come out with a Proclamation.” “But that’s a Royal thing,” said Jinny. “Not always: besides we shall end with _God save the Queen_. Yes, that’s it: ‘Down with the Malt Tax and God save the Queen!’ And the beginning: ‘To our worthy labourers, greeting.’ I’ll draw that up soon as I get home.” “I should offer ’em ten shillings a week,” said Jinny. “You’re joking!” “I’m dead earnest. A family can’t live under ten shillings a week. Then they wouldn’t want to shoot your rabbits and steal your turnips and cabbages.” “Prices make themselves, I tell you. Folks can’t have more than they’re worth. Why, my dad paid as much as thirteen shillings a week to our old looker, Flynt, when he had his strength. Yes, though nobody ever suspected he got more than twelve.” “But besides his duties as bailiff he had to see after feeding the stock night and morning, including Sundays.” “That was why my father paid him the extra shilling. And you can’t say I haven’t treated him generously over the farmhouse.” “I wonder he could bring up such a large family so genteelly,” mused Jinny at a tangent. “The more the easier. A brat of four can scare the crows: the only pity is that his boys wouldn’t stay on the land.” “What was there to stay for? I think there ought to be a law that nobody gets under ten shillings,” persisted Jinny. “What a blessing we haven’t got women over us,” said the farmer, smiling at a heresy too unreasonable for argument. “Men Governments are bad enough, but women would drive us to the workhouse.” “And what about the Queen?” asked Jinny. “Well, _what_ about the Queen?” he repeated vaguely. “Isn’t the Queen a woman?” “The Queen a woman!” He was dazed. “But she doesn’t really govern—not nowadays. It’s Lord John!” “Well then, what about Queen Elizabeth?” “Ah, that was some time back,” he said evasively. “Yes, she put on the crown in 1558, November 17,” quoted Jinny from that Spelling-Book. “I didn’t know you were so well up in history,” he said admiringly. “I reckon you’re ready at ciphering too?” “How could I do my work without it?”