'I know what sort o' man you be,'old Hobden grunted,
groping for the potatoes round the fire.
'Do ye?' Tom went on behind his back. 'Some of us
can't abide Horseshoes, or Church Bells, or Running
Water; an', talkin' o' runnin' water' - he turned to
Hobden, who was backing out of the roundel - 'd'you
mind the great floods at Robertsbridge, when the miller's
man was drowned in the street?'
'Middlin' well.' Old Hobden let himself down on the
coals by the fire-door. 'I was courtin' my woman on the
Marsh that year. Carter to Mus' Plum I was, gettin' ten
shillin's week. Mine was a Marsh woman.'
'Won'erful odd-gates place - Romney Marsh,' said
Tom Shoesmith. 'I've heard say the world's divided
like into Europe, Ashy, Afriky, Ameriky, Australy, an'
Romney Marsh.'
'The Marsh folk think so,' said Hobden. 'I had a hem o'
trouble to get my woman to leave it.'
'Where did she come out of? I've forgot, Ralph.'
'Dymchurch under the Wall,' Hobden answered, a
potato in his hand.
'Then she'd be a Pett - or a Whitgift, would she?'
'Whitgift.' Hobden broke open the potato and ate it
with the curious neatness of men who make most of
their meals in the blowy open.
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