"Thank 'ee, Farmer. A man might say you was in sperrits to-night,
makin' so bold."

"I be; I be."

"Might a man ax wherefore, beyond the nat'ral hail-fellow-well-met of
the season?"

"You may, an' yet you mayn't," answered the host, passing on with the
mug.

"Uncle Issy," asked Jim Lewarne, lurching up, "I durstn' g-glint over my
shoulder--but wud 'ee mind tellin' me if th' old woman's lookin' this
way--afore I squench my thirst?"

"Iss, she be."

Jim groaned. "Then wud 'ee mind a-hofferin' me a taste out o' your
pannikin? an' I'll make b'lieve to say 'Norronany' count.' Amazin' 'ot
t' night," he added, tilting back on his heels, and then dipping forward
with a vague smile.

Uncle Issy did as he was required, and the henpecked one played his part
of the comedy with elaborate slyness. "I don't like that strange
chap," he announced, irrelevantly.

"Nor I nuther," agreed Elias Sweetland, "tho' to be sure, I've a-kept my
eye 'pon en, an' the wonders he accomplishes in an old pair o'
Tresidder's high-lows must be seen to be believed. But that's no call
for Ruby's dancin' wi' he a'most so much as wi' her proper man."