 long-drawn »haw,
haw!« followed by a sudden collapse into utter gravity, as the knife and fork
darted down on the prey. Martin Poyser's large person shook with his silent
unctuous laugh: he turned towards Mrs. Poyser to see if she, too, had been
observant of Tom, and the eyes of husband and wife met in a glance of
good-natured amusement.
    »Tom Saft« was a great favourite on the farm, where he played the part of
the old jester, and made up for his practical deficiencies by his success in
repartee. His hits, I imagine, were those of the flail, which falls quite at
random, but nevertheless smashes an insect now and then. They were much quoted
at sheep-shearing and haymaking times; but I refrain from recording them here,
lest Tom's wit should prove to be like that of many other bygone jesters eminent
in their day - rather of a temporary nature, not dealing with the deeper and
more lasting relations of things.
    Tom excepted, Martin Poyser had some pride in his servants and labourers,
thinking with satisfaction that they were the best worth their pay of any set on
the estate. There was Kester Bale, for example (Beale, probably, if the truth
were known, but he was called Bale, and was not conscious of any claim to a
fifth letter), - the old man with the close leather cap, and the network of
wrinkles on his sun-browned face. Was there any man in Loamshire who knew better
the »natur« of all farming work? He was one of those invaluable labourers who
can not only turn their hand to everything, but excel in everything they turn
their hand to. It is true Kester's knees were much bent outward by this time,
and he walked with a perpetual curtsy, as if he were among the most reverent of
men. And so he was; but I am obliged to admit that the object of his reverence
was his own skill, towards which he performed some rather affecting acts of
worship. He always thatched the ricks; for if anything were his forte more than
another, it was thatching; and when the last touch had been put to the last
beehive rick, Kester, whose home lay at some distance from the farm, would take
a walk to the rickyard in his best clothes on a Sunday morning, and stand in the
lane, at a due distance, to contemplate his own thatching, - walking about to
get each rick from the proper point of view. As he curtsied along,
