"Now, what are ye at?" he said slowly; "What are ye at? All clickettin' together like grasshoppers in a load of hay! What's the mischief? Whose character are ye bitin' bits out of, like mice in an old cheese? Eh? Lord! Lord! Eighty-nine years o' livin' wi' ye, summer in and summer out, don't improve ye,--talk to ye as I will and as I may, ye're all as mis'able sinners as ever ye was, and never a saint among ye 'cept the one in the Sarky Fagus."
Here, pausing for breath, the ancient speaker wiped his head again, carefully flattening down with the action a few stray wisps of thin white hair, while a smile of tranquil and superior wisdom spread itself among the countless wrinkles of his sun-browned face, like a ray of winter sunshine awakening rippling reflections on a half- frozen pool.
"We ain't doin' nothin', Josey!" said Buggins, almost timidly.
"Nor we ain't sayin' nothin'," added Bainton.
"We be as harmless as doves," put in Adam Frost with a sly chuckle; "and we ain't no match for sarpints!"
"Ain't you looking well, Mr. Letherbarrow!" ejaculated the smartly dressed barmaid; "Just wonderful for your time of life!"
"My time o' life?" And Josey Letherbarrow surveyed the young woman with an inimitable expression of disdain; "Well, it's a time o' life YOU'LL never reach, sane or sound, my gel, take my word for't! Fine feathers makes fine birds, but the life is more'n the meat and the body more'n raiment. And as for 'armless as doves and no match for sarpints, ye may be all that and more, which is no sort of argyment and when I sez 'what mischief are ye all up to' I sez it, and expecks a harnser, and a harnser I'll 'ave, or I'll reckon to know the reason why!"
The men and women glanced at each other. It was unnecessary, and it would certainly be inhuman, to irritate old Josey Letherbarrow, considering Ms great age and various infirmities.
"We was jest a-sayin' a word or two about the Five Sisters--" began Adam Frost.
"Ay! ay!" said Josey; "That ye may do and no 'arm come of it; I knows 'em well! Five of the finest beech-trees in all England! Ay! ay! th' owld Squire was main proud of 'em---"
"They be comin' down," said Buggins; "Oliver Leach's chalk mark's on 'em for Wednesday marnin'."
"Comin' down!" echoed Josey--"Comin' down? Gar'n with ye all for a parcel o' silly idgits wi' neither rhyme nor reason nor backbone! Comin' down! Why ye might as well tell me the Manor House was bein' turned into a cow-shed! Comin' down! Gar'n!"