“Bullfrog be ⸻” grumbled the big farmer, hiding his inability to contend in repartee with Mr. Torp under an increased grossness of speech. “What do a son-of-a-bitch like thee know of the ways of the gentry?”

“Malakite?” muttered the breeder of shorthorns. “Bain’t Malakite the old beggar what got into trouble with the police some ten years since?”

“So ’twere,” agreed the grateful tenant of Willum’s Mill, “so ’twere, brother Beard. ’A did, as thee dost say, get into the devil’s own trouble. ’Twere along of his gals; so some folks said. ’A was one of they hoary wold sinners what Bible do tell of.”

“ ’Twere even so, neighbour; ’twere even so,” echoed Mr. Beard. “And I have heerd that old Bert Smith up at Ramsgard could tell a fine story about thik little job.”