“Seth, lad,” said Adam, taking no notice of the sarcasm against himself, “thee mustna take me unkind.  I wasna driving at thee in what I said just now.  Some ‘s got one way o’ looking at things and some ’s got another.”

“Nay, nay, Addy, thee mean’st me no unkindness,” said Seth, “I know that well enough.  Thee’t like thy dog Gyp—­thee bark’st at me sometimes, but thee allays lick’st my hand after.”

All hands worked on in silence for some minutes, until the church clock began to strike six.  Before the first stroke had died away, Sandy Jim had loosed his plane and was reaching his jacket; Wiry Ben had left a screw half driven in, and thrown his screwdriver into his tool-basket; Mum Taft, who, true to his name, had kept silence throughout the previous conversation, had flung down his hammer as he was in the act of lifting it; and Seth, too, had straightened his back, and was putting out his hand towards his paper cap.  Adam alone had gone on with his work as if nothing had happened.  But observing the cessation of the tools, he looked up, and said, in a tone of indignation, “Look there, now!  I can’t abide to see men throw away their tools i’ that way, the minute the clock begins to strike, as if they took no pleasure i’ their work and was afraid o’ doing a stroke too much.”

Seth looked a little conscious, and began to be slower in his preparations for going, but Mum Taft broke silence, and said, “Aye, aye, Adam lad, ye talk like a young un.  When y’ are six-an’-forty like me, istid o’ six-an’-twenty, ye wonna be so flush o’ workin’ for nought.”

“Nonsense,” said Adam, still wrathful; “what’s age got to do with it, I wonder?  Ye arena getting stiff yet, I reckon.  I hate to see a man’s arms drop down as if he was shot, before the clock’s fairly struck, just as if he’d never a bit o’ pride and delight in ’s work.  The very grindstone ’ull go on turning a bit after you loose it.”

“Bodderation, Adam!” exclaimed Wiry Ben; “lave a chap aloon, will ’ee?  Ye war afinding faut wi’ preachers a while agoo—­y’ are fond enough o’ preachin’ yoursen.  Ye may like work better nor play, but I like play better nor work; that’ll ‘commodate ye—­it laves ye th’ more to do.”

With this exit speech, which he considered effective, Wiry Ben shouldered his basket and left the workshop, quickly followed by Mum Taft and Sandy Jim.  Seth lingered, and looked wistfully at Adam, as if he expected him to say something.

“Shalt go home before thee go’st to the preaching?” Adam asked, looking up.

“Nay; I’ve got my hat and things at Will Maskery’s.  I shan’t be home before going for ten.  I’ll happen see Dinah Morris safe home, if she’s willing.  There’s nobody comes with her from Poyser’s, thee know’st.”

“Then I’ll tell mother not to look for thee,” said Adam.

“Thee artna going to Poyser’s thyself to-night?” said Seth rather timidly, as he turned to leave the workshop.