It was only eleven o'clock.

From the far-off wooded hills the haze that hangs like fine black crape at the back of a summer morning had not yet dissipated.

The first man came to the stile.

"Chock-chock!" went the gate under his thrust.
"What, han' yer knocked off ?" cried Mrs.Dakin.
"We han, missis." "It's a pity as they letn yer goo," she said sarcastically.
"It is that," replied the man.
"Nay, you know you're flig to come up again," she said.
And the man went on.

Mrs.Dakin, going up her yard, spied Mrs.Morel taking the ashes to the ash-pit.
"I reckon Minton's knocked off, missis," she cried.
"Isn't it sickenin!" exclaimed Mrs.Morel in wrath.
"Ha! But I'n just seed Jont Hutchby." "They might as well have saved their shoe-leather," said Mrs.Morel.