They only guessed it when Bess's
stump-tail wagged against them.
A big voice began singing outside in the drizzle:
'Old Mother Laidinwool had nigh twelve months been dead,
She heard the hops were doin' well, and then popped up her head.'
'There can't be two people made to holler like that!'
cried old Hobden, wheeling round.
'For, says she, "The boys I've picked with when I was young and fair,
They're bound to be at hoppin', and I'm -'
A man showed at the doorway.
'Well, well! They do say hoppin' 'll draw the very
deadest, and now I belieft 'em. You, Tom? Tom Shoesmith?'
Hobden lowered his lanthorn.
'You're a hem of a time makin' your mind to it, Ralph!'
The stranger strode in - three full inches taller than
Hobden, a grey-whiskered, brown-faced giant with clear
blue eyes. They shook hands, and the children could
hear the hard palms rasp together.
'You ain't lost none o' your grip,' said Hobden. 'Was it
thirty or forty year back you broke my head at Peasmarsh Fair?'
'Only thirty, an' no odds 'tween us regardin' heads,
neither. You had it back at me with a hop-pole.
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