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Robbins continued to rub his hands, but without any appearance of gratification. Mr. Joyce coughed, stuck his pitchfork in the ground, but almost immediately took it out again. He seemed to find some difficulty in proceeding.

“Them was her very words,” he resumed, however, presently. “‘He mus’n’t be allowed to drop in ’arness. We shall be four shillin’ a week out o’ pocket, but Shepherd Robbins do desarve it,’ she says.”

The farmer paused again. It takes some little time for a new idea to penetrate into the inner consciousness of a Dorset rustic, but after a few moments Robbins seemed to grasp this one, and a gleam came into his faded eyes.

“Four shillin’ a week,” he repeated. “What kind o’ chap be you a-goin’ to get for that money, master? Why, the lads ’nd scarce frighten the crows for that.”

The farmer coughed again and gently prodded the ground with his pitchfork, watching the operation with apparently intent interest for a moment or two. Then he slowly raised his eyes.

“He’ll be a-gettin’ eight shillin’ a week, shepherd. Ye see, ’tis this way. We be a-payin’ you twelve shillin’ now, we be.”