"Tim, are you really going to plow the fields?"
Tim flicked his eyes toward Everard.
"Why wouldn't I?" He asked, shoving his hands into his trousers.
"Well, why don't we just go have an ale at the Old Tavern?" Everard insisted.
Tim furrowed his brow and stopped walking. He grabbed Everard by the back of the shirt, twirled him around and pointed a mean finger at him.
"Now listen Everard, your mum has worked hard to give you the life you have. Why don't you just obey her and plow the blasted fields for once? Remember, she's not givin you no first breakfast if you don't!"
Everard lifted Tim's hand off his shirt and stuck his nose in the air.
"That's why I'm gettin an ale at the Tavern!" Everard gawped.
Then he trotted off down the road, past Tim and to the Old Tavern.
Tim just stood there; he put his hand to his face and gave a large sigh.
"God help me now," Tim whispered. "Wait Everard! I'm comin too!"
Everard grinned and kept walking, knowing that Tim had come to his senses.