Cottage Folk

								

foolin’.”
“Ye can see ’em for yerself,” scoffed Mary Ann, pointing to the road
where the heads of the man and the girl were to be seen slowly passing
along above the privet hedge.
“Well, ’e ain’t much of a beau, then,” sneered the woman, “It’s
disgustin’. A widower wi’ a child to keep.”
Mary Ann was hurrying on, but she turned back.
“What!” she shrieked. “Who says so?”
"I says so," answered the woman. “Why, this is his brat as I’ve got
’ere, so I ought to know it. ’E and his slip of a wife lived in my court
up in London, and when the mother died he guv me the child to mind. But
Lord, what ’e pays ain’t worth the bother.”
“I never!” exclaimed Mary Ann impressively. “Do Jenny know it?”
“No,” answered the woman, “and, look ’ere, don’t ye go saying nothink
about it neither. It’s little enough, but sich as it is I can’t afford
to lose it, and he swore he’d take the brat away if ever I said i’ the
place as it were his’n.”
Mary Ann laughed her resounding laugh.
“Don’t want no chaff, I suppose?” roared she. “I’ll think about it. If
Jenny ain’t goin’ to ’ave ’im, there’s no call to tell. But Jenny’s my
pal, and I’ll not promise.”
“If ye don’t I’ll scratch ye,” screamed the woman.
But Miss Mitcham had eluded her and escaped to the group beside the
water-budge, where there was more fun.
Meanwhile the man, shuffling in the dust, had caught up Jenny on the
road. He had a slow, weary sort of gait, and was evidently not of the
soil any more than the rest. In their different ways they all had an air
of city slums about them in spite of their tanned faces and hands torn
by ragged bines and rough hop-poles.
“What are ye goin’ to buy for supper to-night?” said he, after they had
tramped along a little way without a word. “The bacon ain’t p’tickler
good in this ’ere village, are it?”
He had a slow speech, but not unmusical, and the expression of his face,
though of the contemplative order, was frank and friendly, and suggested
none of the discontent that his words might have implied.
“No,” answered she. “But I ain’t goin’ to buy no supper to-night. I’ll
get a drink o’ milk from the farm presently. I ain’t ’ungry.”
“Ye can’t work if ye don’t eat,” said he, and then added shyly: “’Aven’t
ye got no money?”
She flushed a quick red, and he hastened to say apologetically: “Girls
are apt to send it all ’ome, I know.”
“I ain’t got no ’ome,” said she shortly, “nor yet any one as wants my
money.”
“What,” said he, “’aven’t you got no father nor mother?”
“No,” she answered; “I ’aven’t, and I don’t know as you’ve any call to
ask.”
“Beg pardon,” said the man, and then he began to whistle, and looked
away awkwardly. “I filled a can o’ water for ye at the budge,” said he