ice bobbery! Why
doan't he take my plough or wan of the bullocks? Damned thieves, the lot
of'e!"

"Doan't cock your nose so high, Farmer," said Bonus, who had never
spoken to Will since he left Newtake; "'t is very onhandsome of 'e to be
tellin' like this to gentle-folks."

"Gentlefolks! Gentlefolks would ax your help, wouldn't they? You, as be
no better than a common poacher since I turned 'e off! You shut your
mouth and go home-long, an' mind your awn business, an' keep out o' the
game preserves. Law's law, as you'm like to find sooner'n most folks."

This pointed allusion to certain rumours concerning the labourer's
present way of life angered Bonus not a little, but it also silenced
him.

"Law's law, as you truly say, Will Blanchard," answered Mr. Blee, "an'
theer it do lie in a nutshell. A man's gate-post is his awn as a common,
natural gate-post; but bein' a sainted cross o' the Lard sticked in the
airth upsy-down by some ancient devilry, 't is no gate-post, nor yet
every-day moor-stone, but just the common property of all Christian
souls."

"You'm out o' bias to harden your heart, Mr. Blanchard, when this
gentleman sez 't is what 't is," ventured the man Peter Bassett, slowly.

"An' so you be, Blanchard, an' 't is a awful deed every ways, an' you'll
larn it some day. You did ought to be merry an' glad to hear such a
thing 's been found 'pon Newtake. Think o' the fortune a cross o' Christ
brings to 'e!"

"An' how much has it brought, you auld fule?"

"Gude or bad, you'll be a sight wuss off it you leave it wheer 't is,
now you knaw. Theer'll be hell to pay if it's let bide now, sure as eggs
is eggs an' winter, winter. You'll rue it; you'll gnash awver it; 't
will turn against 'e an' rot the root an' blight the ear an' starve the
things an' break your heart. Mark me, you'm doin' a cutthroat deed an'
killin' all your awn luck by leavin' it here an hour longer."

But Will showed no alarm at Mr. Blee's predictions.

"Be it as 't will, you doan't touch my stone--cross or no cross. Damn
the cross! An' you tu, every wan of 'e, dirty night birds!"

Then Martin, who had waited, half hoping that Billy's argument might
carry weight, spoke and ended the scene.

"We'll talk no more and we'll do no more," he said. "You're wrong in a
hundred ways to leave this precious stone to shut a gate and keep in
cows, Blanchard. But if you wouldn't heed my letters, I suppose you
won't heed my voice."

"Why the devil should