“Dagley, my good fellow,” began Mr. Brooke, conscious that he was going to be very friendly about the boy.

“Oh, ay, I’m a good feller, am I?  Thank ye, sir, thank ye,” said Dagley, with a loud snarling irony which made Fag the sheep-dog stir from his seat and prick his ears; but seeing Monk enter the yard after some outside loitering, Fag seated himself again in an attitude of observation.  “I’m glad to hear I’m a good feller.”

Mr. Brooke reflected that it was market-day, and that his worthy tenant had probably been dining, but saw no reason why he should not go on, since he could take the precaution of repeating what he had to say to Mrs. Dagley.

“Your little lad Jacob has been caught killing a leveret, Dagley:  I have told Johnson to lock him up in the empty stable an hour or two, just to frighten him, you know.  But he will be brought home by-and-by, before night:  and you’ll just look after him, will you, and give him a reprimand, you know?”

“No, I woon’t:  I’ll be dee’d if I’ll leather my boy to please you or anybody else, not if you was twenty landlords istid o’ one, and that a bad un.”

Dagley’s words were loud enough to summon his wife to the back-kitchen door—­the only entrance ever used, and one always open except in bad weather—­and Mr. Brooke, saying soothingly, “Well, well, I’ll speak to your wife—­I didn’t mean beating, you know,” turned to walk to the house.  But Dagley, only the more inclined to “have his say” with a gentleman who walked away from him, followed at once, with Fag slouching at his heels and sullenly evading some small and probably charitable advances on the part of Monk.

“How do you do, Mrs. Dagley?” said Mr. Brooke, making some haste.  “I came to tell you about your boy:  I don’t want you to give him the stick, you know.”  He was careful to speak quite plainly this time.

Overworked Mrs. Dagley—­a thin, worn woman, from whose life pleasure had so entirely vanished that she had not even any Sunday clothes which could give her satisfaction in preparing for church—­ had already had a misunderstanding with her husband since he had come home, and was in low spirits, expecting the worst.  But her husband was beforehand in answering.

“No, nor he woon’t hev the stick, whether you want it or no,” pursued Dagley, throwing out his voice, as if he wanted it to hit hard.  “You’ve got no call to come an’ talk about sticks o’ these primises, as you woon’t give a stick tow’rt mending.  Go to Middlemarch to ax for your charrickter.”

“You’d far better hold your tongue, Dagley,” said the wife, “and not kick your own trough over.  When a man as is father of a family has been an’ spent money at market and made himself the worse for liquor, he’s done enough mischief for one day.  But I should like to know what my boy’s done, sir.”