We considered that Smugg was treating Pyrrha very badly--Smugg,
an engaged man, aged thirty, presumably past the heat and
carelessness of youth. We glowed with a sense of her wrongs, and
that afternoon we each went for a solitary walk--at least, we
started for a solitary walk--but half an hour later we all met at
the gate leading to Dill's meadows, and, in an explosion of
laughter, acknowledged our secret design of meeting Pyrrha, and
opening her eyes to Smugg's iniquity.
The great surprise was still to come. At eleven the next
morning, when we had just sat down to work, and Smugg had slid
into the room with the stealthy, ashamed air he wore after his
morning excursions, Mary appeared, and told us that Joe Shanks,
the butcher's son, had come with the chops, and wanted to speak
to us. We hailed the diversion, and had Joe shown in. Gayford
pushed the beer jug and a glass toward him, saying:
"Help yourself, Joe."
Joe drank a draught, wiped his mouth on his blue sleeve, and
remarked:
"No offense, gentlemen."
"None," said Gayford, who seemed to have assumed the chairmanship
of the meeting.
Joe, seeming slightly embarrassed, cleared his throat, and looked
round again.
"No offense, gentlemen," he repeated; "but she's bin walking with
me two years come Michaelmas."
A pause followed. Then the chairman expressed the views of the
meeting.
"The deuce she has!" said he.
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