"Tha’rt right, Jose, when tha names thyseln softish," he growled. "Sakes, if we’re bahn to fret ourselns about iverybody’s aches an’ pains, where mun we stop? Lord be thanked ’at He’s gi’en me a heart like a lump o’ bog-oak—hard, an’ knobby, an’ well-soaked i’ brine. So th’ young Maister’s coming i’ gooid time, is he, to lord it ower his farm folk? Well, let him come, says I; he’ll noan skift me by an inch, willun’t th’ lad." Under other circumstances Hiram would have been at work again by now, nor would he have ceased the unhurried swing of leg and arm-muscle, that does so much in a Marshcotes working-day, until dinner or the advent of another gossip gave him fit excuse for resting. But with the young master close behind—come here, doubtless, to spy on him—the case was altered; and there was stubbornness writ plain in every outstanding knob of the old man’s body as he fell into the most easiful attitude that long experience could suggest. "Well, Hiram, how goes the work?" said Shameless Wayne, stopping at the fence. Hiram glanced carelessly at the young master, then fell to lengthy contemplation of the sky. "Better nor like," he said at last, "seeing I’ve nobbut my own wits to guide me, now th’ owd Maister is goan." "The new master knows a sight less than the old one did, Hiram." "Ye’re right, I reckon." "But he’s willing to learn, and means to." "Oh, ay? I’ve heard that ye can train a sapling, but not at after it’s grown to a tree." "The same old Hiram Hey! Bitter as a dried sloe," growled Shameless Wayne. "Sloes is wholesome, choose what; an’ I addle too little brass to keep me owt but dry—let alone that I’m no drinker by habit." The master winced at this last home-thrust, then squared his jaw obstinately. "Hard words plough no fields, Hiram—no, nor lime them either, as is plain to be seen. Thou’rt a week behind with this field." Hiram glanced edgeways at him, not understanding that two could use his own rough weapons. "A week behind, am I, Maister? An’ how should ye come to know whether I’m forrard or behind wi’ farm wark?" Wayne’s face softened for a moment. "Because the last word I heard from father was touching this same field—and by that token, Hiram, I’ll see that thou gett’st it limed, and sown, and bearing its crop, all in good season, if I have to whip thee up and down the furrows." His sister laid a hand on his sleeve. "Hush, Ned!" she whispered. "Thou’lt win scant labour from such as Hiram, unless thou bearest a kindlier tongue." Yet Shameless Wayne, who was counted light of head and judgment, saw more sides to the matter than prudent Mistress Nell; the temper of the moor folk was an open book to him, and he knew that if he were to be master henceforth he must begin as such, or any after-kindness he might show would count for folly with Hiram and his kind.