Gently through the Mill

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Why was the baker in a temper that morning, shouting so loudly that one might hear him across the mill yard? It wasn’t the way with Blythely, that quiet, chapel-going fisherman; nobody could remember the last time he had been in a temper.

‘Didn’t I tell you not to make a seed-cake mixture!’

It was Ted Jimpson, his young, fair-haired assistant, who was coming in for the full blast of it.

‘We can’t sell seed-cakes at Easter. How many more times have I got to tell you that?’

Sitting in his dusty little office by the mill gate, Fuller, the miller, could imagine the scene in the gloomy, sweating bakehouse. Poor, crestfallen Ted, his limp hair draped over his brow, was mumbling an excuse about the huge bowl of yellow mixture. Blythely would be standing by him, perspiration gleaming on his pale face.

‘I said to make it up-!’

A pause while Ted offered his hesitant explanation.

‘That’s what you tell me. I don’t remember it!’

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