‘I heard the young imp say he’d fowt our Joe and licked him,’ pursued Samson. ‘If ever it should come to my knowledge as a truth I’d put Master Joe in such fettle he wouldn’t sit down for the best side a month o’ Sundays.’ ‘They ‘m giving the child such airs,’ said his wife, ‘it’s enough to turn the bread o’ life which nourishes.’ Mrs. Mountain had an object in view, and, after her own fashion, had held it long in view in silence. The moment seemed to her propitious, and she determined to approach it. ‘Young toad!’ said Samson, rising to kick at the coals with his heavy-heeled boot, and plunging backward into the chair again. ‘To hear him talk--that fine an’ mincin’--you’d think he was one o’ my lord’s grandchildren or a son o’ the squire’s at least,’ said Mrs. Mountain, approaching her theme with circuitous caution. ‘Ay!’ Samson assented ‘It’s enough to turn your stomach to listen to him.’ ‘If they go on as they’re goings pursued his wife, circling a little nearer, ‘we shall live to see fine things.’ ‘We shall, indeed,’ said Samson, a little mollified to find his wife so unusually warm in the quarrel. ‘There’s no such a thing as contentment to be found amongst ‘em. They settle up to be looked upon as gentlefolks.’ ‘Yes; fine things we shall live to see, no doubt, if we don’t tek care. But thanks be, Samson, it’s left in our own hands.’ ‘What be’st hoverin’ at?’ demanded Samson, turning upon her with his surly red face. ‘Things ain’t what they used to be when you an’ me was younger,’ said Mrs. Mountain. ‘The plain ode-fashioned Barfield talk as you and me was bred up to, Samson, ain’t good enough nowadays for the very kitchen wenches and the labourers on the farm. Everybody’s gettin’ that new-fangled!’ ‘Barfield’s good enough for me, and good enough for mine,’ said Samson, with sulky wrath. ‘It’s good enough for we, to be sure, but whether it’s good enough for ourn is another churnin’ o’ butter altogether,’ his wife answered. ‘It ud seem as if ivery generation talked different from one another. My mother, as was a very well-spoken woman for her day, used to call a cup o’ tay a dish o’ tay, and that’s a thing as only the very ignorant ud stoop to nowadays.’ Samson growled, and wallowed discontentedly in the big arm-chair. ‘A mother’s got her natural feelings, Samson,’ Mrs. Mountain continued, with an air and tone of mildest resignation. ‘I don’t scruple to allow as it’ll hurt me if I should live to see our Joe looked down upon by a Reddy.’ ‘Looked down upon!’ cried Samson. ‘Where’s the Reddy as can count acre for acre agen us, or guinea for guinea?’ ‘The Reddy’s is fairly well-to-do, Samson,’ said Mrs. Mountain; ‘very nigh as well-to-do as we be.’ ‘Pooh!’ returned Samson. ‘Oh, but they be, though,’ his wife insisted. ‘Pretty near. There’s nothing so much between us as’d prevent ‘em from taking airs with us if they could find out anything to do it for.’