Rhys listened uneasily, fidgeted, puckered his brows, and at last jerked out, 'Look you, Robert Jones, that boy Willem is the plague of my life. He will not take orders from me. And who else should give orders if I am to manage the farm? Davy and Jonet obey. But he do think of nothing but picking up stones and building; and that will not make a good farmer or till the land, or pay the rent. He was mending walls on Thursday when he should have been digging potatoes. We may thank Cate Griffith they were all up and safe from last night's frost. She took up the spade he threw down.'
'Ah, well, Rhys, all the world are not farmers. Cate's father is a weaver. I cut turf, and sell lime and culm and aught else, to turn an honest penny. But let me see what sort of a young builder you have on the farm. You know I do be going about the country and use my eyes, so I know good walls from bad ones.'
'Sure, they do be well enough for a boy's work,' half contemptuously admitted Rhys, whilst pointing out the repairs in walls and sties.
Jones gave them more than a cursory examination.
'Yes, yes, Rhys. But they do be "well enough" for a _man's_ work, that they do. The stones are well fitted and firm. You owe the boy thanks, not blame. Don't you be for thwarting Willem, or you may be spoiling a good builder to make a poor farmer. A sound fence is a farmer's friend. Let him keep your fences sound, and he will help to pay the rent, 'deed he will.'
'Your eyes are blinded by prejudice, man. Would not a stray cow, or hog, or pony that found a gap ready, do more damage to crops in a day than you could repair in a month?'
This was not to be gainsaid. But when the turf-cutter urged William's claim to just consideration and recognition of his service, the pride of Rhys was up in alarm for his own authority.
'No more a boy than you were, Rhys, when you first tried to fill your dead father's place, and told your mother you were "old enough to do your duty." Have you forgotten that? Or are you _younger_ than you were then?'
Whether he had forgotten, or did not choose to remember, he turned off with a light laugh, and the remark, 'I'm not doing my duty in idling here.'
But conscience is a mill that grinds at all hours, and unsought, and Robert Jones had set the wheels in motion.