"Ay -- I understand."
"Sit down, Shepherd Oak," continued the ancient man of malt. "And how was the old place at Norcombe, when ye went for your dog? I should like to see the old familiar spot; but faith, I shouldn't" know a soul there now."
"I suppose you wouldn't. 'Tis altered very much."
"Is it true that Dicky Hill's wooden cider-house is pulled down?"
"O yes -- years ago, and Dicky's cottage just above it."
"Well, to be sure!, "Yes; and Tompkins's old apple-tree is rooted that used to bear two hogsheads of cider; and no help from other trees."
"Rooted? -- you don't say it! Ah! stirring times we live in -- stirring times."
And you can mind the old well that used to be in the middle of the place? That's turned into a solid iron pump with a large stone trough, and all complete."
"Dear, dear -- how the face of nations alter, and what we live to see nowadays! Yes -- and 'tis the same here. They've been talking but now of the mis'ess's strange doings."
"What have you been saying about her?" inquired Oak, sharply turning to the rest, and getting very warm.
"These middle-aged men have been pulling her over the coals for pride and vanity." said Mark Clark; "but I say, let her have rope enough. Bless her pretty face shouldn't I like to do so -- upon her cherry lips!"
The gallant Mark Clark here made a peculiar and well known sound with his own.
"Mark." said Gabriel, sternly, "now you mind this!
none of that dalliance-talk -- that smack-and-coddle style of yours -- about Miss Everdene. I don't allow it. Do you hear? "
"With all my heart, as I've got no chance." replied Mr. Clark, cordially.
"I suppose you've been speaking against her?" said Oak, turning to Joseph Poorgrass with a very grim look.
"No, no -- not a word I -- 'tis a real joyful thing that she's no worse, that's what I say." said Joseph, trembling and blushing with terror. "Matthew just said -- -- "
"Matthew Moon, what have you been saying?" asked Oak.
"I? Why ye know I wouldn't harm a worm -- no, not one underground worm?" said Matthew Moon, looking very uneasy.
"Well, somebody has -- and look here, neighbours."
Gabriel, though one of the quietest and most gentle men on earth, rose to the occasion, with martial promptness and vigour. "That's my fist." Here he placed his fist, rather smaller in size than a common loaf, in the mathemarical centre of the maltster's little table, and with it gave a bump or two thereon, as if to ensure that their eyes all thoroughly took in the idea of fistiness before he went further. "Now -- the first man in the parish that I hear prophesying bad of our mistress, why" (here the fist was raised and let fall as T'hor might have done with his hammer in assaying it) -- "he'll smell and taste that -- or I'm a Dutchman."