The very indignation provoked by this remark, which, as he thought, came ill from the man whose incautious speech had first evoked in his hearers a sense of personal ill-usage, suggested to Jess a new plan of action. Why not offer his services to Mr Inkpen, who would know so well how to reward them? He could not but feel gratified at the thought that it was in vaunting his generosity, and in endeavouring to force Old to follow his example, that Jess had lost his place. He strolled round to Inkpen’s premises at a convenient hour of the evening, when he would be likely to find the master disengaged. Fortune seemed to favour him: Mr Inkpen, very much at ease in snowy Sabbath shirt sleeves, was leaning across his gate, smoking a ruminative pipe. “Fine evenin’, sir,” began Jess. The farmer nodded a trifle sourly. “Ye haven’t a-got all your hay in yet, I see,” proceeded Domeny. Mr Inkpen removed his pipe from his mouth. “I’d like to know what business it be o’ yours whether I’ve a-got it in, or whether I haven’t?” he returned, with what seemed to Jess uncalled-for asperity. “No offence, sir, no offence,” faltered the latter. “You do seem to meddle a deal too much in my affairs,” continued the farmer. “It don’t matter to you, as I can see, whether I do give my men beer or whether I don’t. You haven’t got to drink it.” “No, sir, that’s true. I only wish I had the chance,” said Jess with a sinking heart; it did not seem a promising opening of negotiations. “Well, then, why must ye go bringing up my name to Mr Old, an’ a-tryin’ for to make trouble wi’ his folks? Mr Old an’ me be good neighbours, an’ don’t wish to be nothin’ else. I don’t meddle wi’ his business, and he don’t meddle wi’ mine. ’Tis a pretty bit o’ impidence for the likes o’ you to go a-puttin’ your word in.” “’Twas a mistake,” stammered Jess. “Measter Old he did take I up a bit too shart. I did but chance to mention to en how kind and good-natured you’d showed yourself. I did tell en he did ought to follow your example and send out a drap o’ beer to the men at busy times, same as you do do—” “Who’s been makin’ a fool o’ ye wi’ such tales?” shouted Inkpen, thumping the gate with his fist. “I d’ ’low he was as big a fool as yourself, whoever he mid be. I did gi’ the men a drink once when they was workin’ arter time—but as for makin’ a reg’lar practice of it, I b’ain’t no more of a sammy nor my neighbours. Well, I hear Old has gived ye marchin’ arders, an’ a good job too. It do sarve ye right.” “Plaise ye, sir, Measter Old didn’t notice me. I be on strike.” Inkpen glowered at him for a moment, and then burst out laughing. “On strike, be ye? Well I hope ye’ll like it. All I can say is any master ’ud be well shut on ye. I wouldn’t have such a mischievous chap as you among my folk for a hundred pound.” “If that’s what you think, sir, I wish ye good evening,” said Domeny, endeavouring to summon up some semblance of dignity.