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Scyld didn't know how to handle children well; the younger they were, the worse he was. After being sent to work for Sorn at ten years old, he'd never spent much time around children, which had made for a lonely childhood.
So his instinctive reaction was to reply shortly to Javan, to tell him that theirs was not talk meant for children. But Scyld had been around long enough to learn (mostly through observation of others) that Javan had a bit of a stubborn streak and didn't take well to being told off. There was a good chance that he would become even more bothersome if he wasn't told what he wanted to hear and then put back to work.
“Eodwine got back this morning, a couple hours ago,” Scyld said, “and we were discussing it. Now, if you could unload those stones just over there, where the wood is being piled – and sort them by size, too.”
He turned back to his chopping. Between the level of discomfort that the men's conversation had reached and the presence of the boys, he strongly suspected that nobody would be talking about anything more interesting than how the sheep pen should be laid out for a while.
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