"They say it war Hiram Hey hisseln that telled Red Ratcliffe where to find th’ peats," put in the Sexton’s wife. "Begow, who telled thee, Nanny? I thowt I’d kept a close mouth on ’t." "Well, news goes wi’ th’ wind, as they say, an’ it’s all ower th’ parish by now how wise Hiram war fooled by a Ratcliffe." Hiram moved to the door. "Dang it, I wish folk hed as mich to do as me, an’ then they’d hev no time for gossip," he growled.—"Where mun I stack thy peats, Nanny?" "I’ th’ cellar-hole, for sure. Where else?—But tha’d mebbe like a sup o’ home-brewed, Hiram, afore tha unloads ’em?" "I doan’t care so mich if I do. I’m nowt at drinking myseln, but there’s a time for all things, an’ ’tis a body’s plain duty to keep th’ cowd out on a day like this. Gi’e us hod o’ them tatie-sacks, Nanny; it’ll be th’ death o’ yond owd hoss if he’s left wi’ niver a coat to his back." Hiram was never gentle save with horses; but he covered the thick thewed beast as carefully as if it were an ailing good-wife. "Tha daft owd fooil!" he muttered with rough tenderness. "’Twould niver do to let thee catch Browntitus, wod it, now?" "’Tis nowt whether we catch th’ ’Titus, seemingly," cried Nanny from within. "I’ll get thee thy sup of ale this minute, lad, if tha’ll nobbut shut th’ door to." Hiram did as he was bidden, and came and leaned over the lang-settle while he watched Nanny draw the ale from the barrel standing against the dresser. "If this fine spring weather ’ull nobbut skift afore, say th’ back-end o’ July," he went on, "we may hev crops enough to keep us wick. But I doubt it—ay, I doubt it." And then, having shot his bolt at the old enemy, he settled himself placidly enough to his mug of home-brewed. "Well, tha’ll be well fund i’ peats, Nanny," said Bet the slattern presently. "It’s varry thowtful, like, o’ th’ Maister," repeated the Sexton’s wife, with another glance at the waiting cart. "Ay, he’s thowtful," put in Hiram grimly. "What dost think he did last week? I war so pinched wi’ th’ cowd, an’ th’ rheumatiz hed getten hod o’ me so, what wi’ sweating i’ th’ sun an’ shivering at after i’ th’ wind, ’at I left a bit o’ ploughing i’ one o’ th’ high-fields. But, hoity-toity, that wodn’t do for this keen young Maister, that didn’t knaw oats fro’ wheat a six-month sin’. I war up an’ about th’ next day; an’ when I gets to th’ field, thinking I’d look round a bit afore fetching th’ plough, what should I find but th’ Maister hisseln ploughing——" "My sakes!" cried Nanny, lifting her floury hands. "They mud weel say i’ Marshcotes that summat hes come to th’ lad. Did he drive a straight furrow, like?"