IMichael Draycott was waiting for him at the gate when Hardcastle came over the moor to Broken Firs the next afternoon, and he nodded a cheery greeting.
“You’re on the very stroke of the time you promised, Master.”
“I have to be, Michael. You’re so often near dying that a minute beyond might be too late.”
“Now, I willun’t have that old joke thrown at me,” chuckled the farmer. “Maybe I have my fancies, like one here and there; but I do get up from my death-bed wonderful regular.”
“And then you want to dip into my pockets for repairs. It would pay me to keep you ill in bed.”
“Not in the long run, when roofs began to gape and gates dropped all to bits. There’d be a tidier penny to pay then than now.”
“Have it your own way, Michael, but remember I’m a poor man.”
The ancient ritual went
