I THINK it was Oscar Wilde who said that a rich man knows the price of everything but the value of nothing. Cynics say every man has his price although, in these days of equal opportunity, perhaps every woman has her price too.

Now Owd Tom is far from being a rich man - what hill farmer is these days? - but he knows his price down to the nearest farthing.

"You don't pay a brain surgeon by the hour," he roared this week in a very unusual row with a most unlikely combatant, the Innkeeper's Lady at the Beggars' Arms.

Now it should be remembered that for some years now, Tom, his son and his grandson have been supplying the Beggar's with various foodstuffs they have grown themselves but have also hunted or picked in the dale. Not just the obvious things like fresh killed lamb and free range eggs but rabbits, the odd hare, a pheasant or two, plus the odd plump trout from the beck, field mushrooms from Hard Rock Farm and bilberries from the side of Tup Fell.

This has helped the Beggars' to build a growing reputation for its genuine, olde English food and even a rave review from Arabella, the food critic of the Yorkshire Aspirational glossy mag.

So when, a couple of weeks ago, he asked the landlady to save any old champagne bottles - or any bottle with a concave bottom for that matter - she asked no questions: Tom was up to something and she knew fine well he would not reveal what that was until his mission was accomplished.

She was right. For Tom had gone back to his childhood to make minnow traps by carefully knocking out the bubble in the bottom of he bottles, baiting them with bits of sardine and lowering them into some of the quieter pools on the beck.

He was not after minnows, nor trout - the trout season is closed and Tom would never poach because he understands that fish need to breed in peace - but a Yankee invader which has taken over the Beggar and its tributaries.

The American signal crayfish, you see, was introduced to Britain because it is a foodie's delight, like langoustine but better. It escaped, of course, like all imports do, and is now wiping out the much smaller native crayfish in the rushing streams of the Yorkshire Dales.

So, last Saturday, Tom staggered into the Beggar's with a bucket full of the nasty little (or rather, quite big) bleepers, still alive and clicking and dying to grab anything that moved with claws the size of a nutcracker.

And so the bargaining began. Tom, of course, does not take payment in coin of the realm but in pints of Ram's Blood bitter (ABV 5.5%). After some haggling, a price of one pint per dozen was established, and Tom was able to stagger off to watch the rugby on the Meadow with a fine haze to keep him warm.

But come Sunday lunchtime, when local crayfish, cooked in white wine, butter and herbs, were being snapped up by the posher trippers - Tom let out an anguished scream.

For there they were on the menu at £7.50 for six or £12.50 the dozen. Tom was furious, demanding that the landlady be dragged out of her busy kitchen.

"I ne'er thought thar would rip me off lass," he whispered loud enough to stop the diners dining.

"Tom," she said raising a placatory hand. "I didn't know what to charge so I rang round and that is the going rate." Tom snorted. "So I have decided to double your fee to two pints a dozen."

It is not easy to take Tom's breath away - but that did. He even gave some of his fishy gains away. It's an ill wind...

* The Curmudgeon is a satirical column based on a fictitious character in a mythical village.