"I wasn' blowin' my nose," objected Zeb, shortly.

"Well, in black an' white you wasn', but ye gave me that idee."

Young Zeb stared out of the window. Far down the coombe a slice of blue
sea closed the prospect, and the tan sails of a small lugger were
visible there, rounding the point to the westward. He watched her
moodily until she passed out of sight, and turned to his father.

"To-morrow, did 'ee say?"

"Iss, to-morrow, at eleven i' the forenoon. Jim Lewarne brought me
word."

"Terrible times they be for Jim, I reckon," said Elias Sweetland.
"All yestiddy he was goin' back'ards an' forrards like a lost dog in a
fair, movin' his chattels. There's a hole in the roof of that new
cottage of his that a man may put his Sunday hat dro'; and as for his
old Woman, she'll do nought but sit 'pon the lime-ash floor wi' her
tout-serve over her head, an' call en ivery name but what he was
chris'ened."

"Nothin' but neck-an'-crop would do for Tresidder, I'm told," said Old
Zeb. "'I've a-sarved 'ee faithful,' said Jim, 'an' now you turns me out
wi' a week's warnin'.' 'You've a-crossed my will,' says Tresidder, 'an'
I've engaged a more pushin' hind in your place.' 'Tis a new fashion o'
speech wi' Tresidder nowadays."

"Ay, modern words be drivin' out the old forms. But 'twas only to get