But if 'e's wantin' to 'arn a mossel o' victual, I'll find 'im a lightsome job on the farm if he'll reckon to walk oop to me afore noon to-morrer.

Tell 'im' that from farmer Joltram, an' good-night t'ye!" He strode out, and before eleven had struck, the old-fashioned iron bar clamped down across the portal, and the inn was closed.

Then Miss Tranter turned into the bar, and before shutting it up paused, and surveyed her three lodgers critically.
"So you pretend to be all miserably poor, and yet you actually collect what you call a 'fund' for the old tramp upstairs who's a perfect stranger to you!" she said--"Rascals that you are!" Bill Bush looked sheepish.
"Only halfpence, Miss," he explained.

"Poor we be as church mice, an' ye knows that, doesn't ye?
But we aint gone broken yet, an' Tom 'e started the idee o' doin' a good turn for th' old gaffer, for say what ye like 'e do look a bit feeble for trampin' it." Miss Tranter sniffed the atmosphere of the bar with a very good assumption of lofty indifference.
"_You_ started the idea, did you ?" she went on, looking at Tom o' the Gleam.

"You're a nice sort of ruffian to start any idea at all, aren't you?
I thought you always took, and never gave!" He smiled, leaning his handsome head back against the white-washed wall of the little entry where he stood, but said nothing.