“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.”
“Niver do you mind what he’s done,” said Dagley, more fiercely, “it’s my business to speak, an’ not yourn. An’ I wull speak, too. I'll hev my say—supper or no. An’ what I say is, as I've lived upo’ your ground from my father and grandfather afore me, an’ hev dropped our money into’t, an’ me an’ my children might lie an’ rot on the ground for top-dressin’ as we can’t find the money to buy, if the King wasn’t to put a stop.”
“My good fellow, you’re drunk, you know,” said Mr Brooke, confidentially but not judiciously. “Another day, another day,” he added, turning as if to go.
But Dagley immediately fronted him, and Fag at his heels growled low, as his master’s voice grew louder and more insulting, while Monk also drew close in silent dignified watch. The labourers on the waggon were pausing to listen, and it seemed wiser to be quite passive than to attempt a ridiculous flight pursued by a bawling man.
“I’m no more drunk nor you are, nor so much,” said Dagley. “I can carry my liquor, an’ I know what I meean. An’ I meean as the King ’ull put a stop to’t, for them say it as knows it, as there’s to be a Rinform, and them landlords as never done the right thing by their tenants ’ull be treated i’ that way as they’ll hev to scuttle off. An’ there’s them i’ Middlemarch knows what the Rinform is—an’ as knows who’ll hev to scuttle. Says they, ‘I know who your landlord is.’ An’ says I, ‘I hope you’re the better for knowin’ him, I arn’t.’ Says they, ‘He’s a close-fisted un.’ ‘Ay, ay,’ says I. ‘He’s a man for the Rinform,’ says they. That’s what they says. An’ I made out what the Rinform were—an’ it were to send you an’ your likes a-scuttlin’; an’ wi’ pretty strong-smellin’ things too. An’ you may do as you like now, for I'm none afeard on you. An’ you’d better let my boy aloan,
