'Yes, Maister Derriman, I will. No, 'tis not fit, Maister
Derriman.'

'What stock has uncle lost this year, Cripplestraw?'

'Well, let's see, sir. I can call to mind that we've lost three
chickens, a tom-pigeon, and a weakly sucking-pig, one of a fare of
ten. I can't think of no more, Maister Derriman.'

'H'm, not a large quantity of cattle. The old rascal!'

'No, 'tis not a large quantity. Old what did you say, sir?'

'O nothing. He's within there.' Festus flung his forehead in the
direction of a right line towards the inner apartment. 'He's a
regular sniche one.'

'Hee, hee; fie, fie, Master Derriman!' said Cripplestraw, shaking
his head in delighted censure. 'Gentlefolks shouldn't talk so. And
an officer, Mr. Derriman! 'Tis the duty of all cavalry gentlemen to
bear in mind that their blood is a knowed thing in the country, and
not to speak ill o't.'

'He's close-fisted.'

'Well, maister, he is--I own he is a little. 'Tis the nater of some
old venerable gentlemen to be so. We'll hope he'll treat ye well in
yer fortune, sir.'