"They are not mine," retorted Abraham angrily. "You are not going to make a merit to me of saving what are the belongings of other folk?"
"They belong to your mistress."
"Well, so they do, that is, they don't belong to me; so none of your boasting to me, as if I owed you anything." This ungracious remark, but one not unnatural for a rude peasant jealous lest an obligation should place him in a position of disadvantage, was followed by silence, during which the party ate.
Presently Abraham asked, "How came you to be there?"
"Master sent Jim out with me in the big boat after ducks, and he was in the punt," answered one of the men. " He bade us lie by at the mouth of the Rhyn, while he went on to drive the birds our way; there was a lot, and we thought to pepper into a whole flight. He was not long away—not above an hour—when we saw the Ray house afire, and heard him shouting to us to come on, so we rowed as hard as hard, and by the time we landed he had broke open the door, and got the old lady out. We helped as best we might, and saved a deal of things."
"They ain't worth much," said Abraham. "There's nothing in the house worth five pound,—take the whole lot. The cow was the only thing would pay for saving, and she was safe. I slept in the loft over her."
"The life of your mistress was worth something, I hope, Abby."
"Don't know that. Not to me, anyhow. She's not mistress; it is Mehaiah that orders, and does everything. I don't reckon an old woman's life is worth a crown, not to nobody but herself, may be; but that is her concern, not mine. She was an ailing aguish body. Why!" exclaimed Abraham, banging his can of ale on the table, "when you've saved an old woman who is nought but a trouble to everybody as does with her, of what wally is it? They might have paid you to let her alone, but not to lug her out of the fire. Now, Mehaiah, she was another sort. But you didn't save her."
"Where was she? She was not in the house."
