e custom on the marsh to send the young sheep for grazing
on upland farms, and fetch them back in the spring as tegs. Joanna
disposed of her young flock between Relf of Baron's Grange and Noakes of
Mockbeggar, then, still accompanied by Alce, strolled down to inspect
the wethers she had brought to the market.

On her way she met the farmer of Picknye Bush.

"Good day, Miss Godden--I've just come from buying some tegs of yourn."

"My looker's settled with you, has he?"

"He said he had the power to sell as he thought proper--otherways I was
going to ask for you."

An angry flush drowned the freckles on Joanna's cheek.

"That's Fuller, the obstinate, thick-headed old man...."

Bates's round face fell a little.

"I'm sorry if there's bin any mistaeake. After all, I aeun't got the
beasts yet--thirty shillings a head is the price he asked and I paid. I
call it a fair price, seeing the time of year and the state of the meat
market But if your looker's bin presuming and you aeun't pleased, then I
woean't call it a deal."

"I'm pleased enough to sell you my beasts, and thirty shillings is a
fairish price. But I won't have Fuller fixing things up over my head
like this, and I'll tell him so. How many of 'em did you buy, Mr.
Bates?"

"I bought the lot--two score."

Joanna made a choking sound. Without another word, she turned and walked
off in the direction of the hurdles where her sheep were penned, Bates
and Alce following her after one disconcerted look at each other. Fuller
stood beside the wethers, his two shaggy dogs couched at his feet--he
started when he suddenly saw his mistress burst through the crowd, her
black feathers nodding above her angry face.

"Fuller!" she shouted, so loud that those who were standing near turned
round to see--"How many wether-tegs have you brought to Lydd?"

"Two score."

"How many did I tell you to bring?"

"The others wurn't fit, surelye."

"But didn't I tell you to bring them?"

"You did, but they wurn't fit."

"I said you were to bring them, no matter if you thought 'em fit or
not."

"They wurn't fit to be sold as meat."

"I tell you they were."

"No one shall say as Tom Fuller doean't bring fit meat to market."

"You're an obstinate old fool. I tell you they were first-class meat."

Men were pressing round, farmers and graziers and butchers, drawn by the
spectacle of Joanna Godden at war with her looker in the middle of Lydd
market. Alce touched her arm appea