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 been; and a pretty slave I've been. Don't talk to me of masters.'

'O Tom, Tom,' cried his wife, 'but he's been a good master to you; fourteen shillings a week, regular wages,—that's not a thing to make a sneer at; and think how warm the children are lapped up o' winter nights, and you with as good shoes to your feet as ever keep him out of the mud.'

'What of that?' said Tom; 'isn't my labor worth the money? I'm not beholden to my employer. He gets as good from me as he gives.'

'Very like, Tom. There's not a man for miles round that can match you at a graft; and as to early peas—but if master can't do without you, I'm sure you can't do without him. O, dear, to think that you and he should have had words!'

'We've had no words,' said Tom, impatiently; 'but I'm sick of being at another man's beck and call. It's "Tom do this," and "Tom do that," and nothing but work, work, work, from Monday morning till Saturday night; and I was thinking, as I walked over to Squire Morton's to ask for the turnip seed for master—I was thinking, Sally, that I am nothing but a poor working man after all. In short, I'm a slave, and my spirit won't stand it.'

So saying, Tom flung himself out at the cottage door, and his wife thought he was going back to his work as usual. But she was mistaken; he walked to the wood, and there, when he came to the border of a little tinkling stream, he sat down, and began to brood over his grievances. It was a very hot day.

'Now, I'll tell you what,' said Tom to himself, 'it's Rh