There was a considerable hum of applause among the company at this; for Mr. Manley of Willum’s Mill was universally disliked.

But the farmer took no heed of this manifestation of public opinion.

“Do ’ee hear what Jack Torp be saying?” he jeered, stretching out his long legs and emptying his glass of gin-and-bitters. “He’s sick as Satan wi’ I; and I’ll tell ’ee the cause for’t.”

There was a general stir in the room and a craning forward of necks. The seasoned cronies of the Three Peewits had long ago discovered that the most delectable of all social delights was a quarrel that just stopped short of physical violence.

“The cause for’t be,” went on the master of Willum’s Mill, “that I ordered me mother’s grave proper-like from Weymouth, ’stead of ferretting round his dog-gone yard, where there bain’t naught but litter and rubbish and paupers’ monuments.”