‘Ay,’ said Drew, ‘I’ve heard of men that was strung up for stealing sheep down Exmoor way. There’s a many sheep on the moors, and ponies too. You should see them when the foals come along, springtime, and when they’m drove down to Bampton fair. ’Tis a fine sight, sure ‘nuff! But that there’s nothing to the old times. My granf’er, ’er was barn up Somerset, not too far from Ta’nton, used to tell as how men was stringed up by the dozen, the same as jays or magpies, by a tarrable old chap of the name of Jeffereys. Bloody Jeffereys, that’s what they called ’en. A judge he were. . . . Iss, bloody Jeffereys.’ ‘There now!’ said Mrs Mamble, throwing up her hands. ‘And them they durs’nt hang they sent off to Canada, so I’m told. Ay, many likely chaps was sent there and never came home no more, though what they sent ’en for I can’t rightly call to mind, unless ‘twere rick-burning. Had the redcoats to ’em, they did! But that’s all past and gone, thanks-be! Iss, past and gone. . . . The law bain’t what it used to be. There’s juries these days. An’ what be manslarter but a thing that might come to any man unbeknownst? Don’t ’ee be afeared, missus! Don’t ’ee be afeared! There be no shame in “going up the line,” as they do call it down our way.’ ‘No shame, as you say, Mr Drew,’ said Mrs Mamble solemnly. ‘But the shame’s not everything. It’s a hard thing on a woman that has little children with her crying for an empty belly when a man’s away in jail and not a penny in the house but what the parish gives her. And the questions they ask! That’s where the shame comes in, and I’ve known many a proud woman starve for a crust of bread rather than answer them, they’re that disgusting.’ ‘Ah, get away, do! woman,’ said old Drew, with a laugh. ‘What’s questions? And Mrs Malpas here ban’t going to do no such thing. A woman never knows what friends she’s got till she’s found trouble, and they that has a roof to their heads and a bit of garden to till can spare something for their neighbours. No, don’t ’ee believe ’en, my dear! If it’s only potatoes and swede out of the fields, no chilring ’ll starve to Wolfpits, not they! Don’t you believe it! An’ a woman like your George’s mother with a tidy little business at the Buffalo. . . . Trouble ’ll tell you your friends.’ The clock struck nine. ‘Now that’s a fine thing to be sure,’ he went on, with a glance of admiration, ‘a fine thing to have a clock to tell ’ee when to be going up over, and keep ’ee company night-time. ’Tis hard to judge the hour in winter when the old sun be hid!’ He pulled his stiff limbs together painfully, and left them with more encouragements. ‘He’s a quiet man,’ said Mrs Mamble, when they heard him treading softly over the snow, ‘but I always reckoned he’d be a good neighbour.’