“Master do want to know if we’ve a’ been judged yet, my dear,” returned Becky soothingly. “I reckon he’ll be surprised when he do hear how we’ve a-been used.”
“’Ees indeed,” sighed Bithey, and she wiped her eyes with a corner of her shawl.
“There, don’t take ’ee on, my dear,” said Rebecca, patting her hand affectionately. “The poor soul,” she explained, turning to the farmer and his wife, who were gazing at the pair open-mouthed, “the poor soul do seem to be quite undone. I d’ ’low ’twas a shame to go and disapp’int her so. ’Twill ha’ gied her quite a turn—at her age an’ all.”
“’Tis no worse for me nor ’tis for you, my dear,” put in Bithey with a groan of sympathy. “You had farther to come nor me, an’ you must be half shook to pieces a-ridin’ in that wold cart.”
“In the name o’ fortun’,” cried the exasperated Mr. Meatyard, “which on you did get the prize? There you do go chatterin’ an’ jabberin’ and neither of you will tell us which be the winner.”
“’Tis the most unfairest thing you ever did hear on!” exclaimed Becky. “There was the two of us—the woldest women for miles round, I’ll go bail. I’m sure ye did only need to look at Bithey here to see it.”
“And I’m sure,” wailed Tabitha, “the very sight o’ your grey hair did ought to ha’ shamed them, Becky.”
Here the impatient farmer made a sudden lunge at them, almost after the fashion of the curly-horned prize ram, and the two old women simultaneously announced in an agitated whimper:—
“There, they didn’t give the prize to neither of us!”
“Dear heart alive! you don’t say so?” said Mrs. Meatyard, after a pause of blank amazement, while her husband uttered a shrill whistle. “Didn’t ’ee get no prize at all then?”
“Wasn’t ’ee so much as ‘’Ighly Commended,’ Beck?” cried her master, recovering from his stupor, and uttering a roar of laughter.
“No, sir,” returned Rebecca mournfully, “I didn’t get nothin’ at all—nor Bithey neither. They never took a bit of notice after they’d axed how long we’d been in our present sitooations. They went and give the butter-dish to quite a young ’ooman. I don’t think she can ha’ been more nor fifty-five. ’Ees, sir, if ye’ll believe me, a big strapping woman as stout as me and Bithey put together, and so firm on her legs as anything.”