Читать книгу: «The Parson O' Dumford», страница 7

“What is it, Banks?” exclaimed Richard, starting.

“Don’t make no terms wi’ ’em at all, for they wean’t keep to ’em, the blackguards.”

“But what is it?” cried Richard, impatiently.

“What is it? What is it, Missus Glaire? Why, I was watching here mysen till nine o’clock, and left all safe.”

“Well?” cried Richard, turning pale.

“Look here, Joe Banks,” cried the man who had been speaking before; “tak’ it a bit easy, theer. None o’ us ain’t done nowt, ha’e we, lads?”

“No,” was chorused, Sim Slee’s voice being the loudest.

“Done nowt!” roared Banks, like an angry lion. “D’yer call it nowt to steal into a man’s place, and coot and carry off every band in t’ whole works?”

“Have they – have they done that, Banks?” cried Richard.

“Have they?” roared the foreman; “ask the sneaking cowards.”

“No, no, we hain’t,” cried the leader, bringing his hand down on the table with a thump. “It’s a loi, ain’t it, lads – a loi?”

“Yes,” was chorused; “we ain’t done nowt o’ t’ sort.”

“Then who did it?” cried Banks; and there was a silence.

“Look here,” cried Richard, who had been brought very unwillingly to this concession by Mrs Glaire, and gladly hailed an excuse for evading it. “Look here, Banks, are all those wheel-bands destroyed?”

“Ivery one of ’em,” said Banks.

“Then I’ll make no agreement,” cried Richard, in a rage. “You may strike, and I’ll strike. It’s my turn now – be quiet, mother, I’m master here,” he cried, as Mrs Glaire tried to check him. “I won’t have my property destroyed, and then find work for a pack of lazy, treacherous scoundrels. There’s a hundred pounds’ worth of my property taken away. Make it up, and put it back, and then perhaps I’ll talk to you.”

“But I tell you, Mester, it’s none o’ us,” cried the leader.

“None of you!” sneered Richard. “Why, the bands are gone, and I’m to give way, and pay better, and feed you and yours, and be trampled upon. Be off, all of you; go and strike, and starve, till you come humbly on your knees and beg for work.”

“Had you not better try and find out the offender, Mr Glaire?” interposed the vicar, who saw the men’s lowering looks. “Don’t punish the innocent with the guilty.”

“Well spoke, parson,” cried a voice.

“You mind your own business, sir,” shouted Richard. “I know how to deal with my own workmen. You struck for wages, and you assaulted me. I’ll strike now, you cowards, for I’ll lock you out. The furnaces are cold; let them stop cold, for I’ll lose thousands before I’ll give in. I’ll make an example of you all.”

“You’ll repent this, Mester Richard Glaire,” shouted Slee.

“I’ll repent when I see you in gaol, you mouthing demagogue!” cried Richard. “Now, get off my premises, all of you, for I’ll hold no more intercourse with any of the lot.”

“But I tell you, Mester,” said the leader, a short, honest-looking fellow, “it’s – ”

“Be off, I tell you!” shouted Richard. “Where are my bands?”

The man wiped his forehead, and looked at his companions, who one and all looked from one to another, and then, as if feeling that there was a guilty man amongst them – one who had, as it were, cut the ground from beneath their feet – they slowly backed out, increasing their pace though, towards the last, as if each one was afraid of being left.

“Go after them, Banks, and see them off the premises,” said Richard, with a triumphant look in his eye. “Let’s see who’ll be master now.”

The foreman went after the deputation, and there was a low murmuring in the yard, but the men all went off quietly, and the great gates were heard to clang to.

“Oh, Richard, my boy,” said Mrs Glaire, “I’m afraid you’ve made matters worse.”

“I’ll see about that,” said Richard, rubbing his hands, and giving a look askant at the vicar, who stood perfectly silent. “They’ll be down on their knees before the week’s out, as soon as the cupboard begins to be nipped. Are they all gone, Banks?”

“Yes, they’re all gone,” said the foreman, returning. “I wouldn’t ha’ thowt it on ’em.”

“Stop!” cried Richard, as a sudden idea seemed to strike him. “What time did you go away, Joe?”

“’Bout nine.”

“And all was right then?”

“That I’ll sweer,” said the foreman; “I went all over the works. It must ha’ been done by some cowardly sneak as had hid in the place.”

“I know who it was,” said Richard, with his eyes sparkling with malicious glee.

“Know who it was?” said Banks. “Tell me, Maister Richard, and I’ll ’bout break his neck.”

“It was that scoundrel Tom Podmore.”

“Who? Tom Podmore! Yah!” said the foreman, in a tone of disgust; and then with a chuckle. “I dessay he’d like to gi’e you one, Maister Dick; but go and steal the bands! It ain’t in him.”

“But I tell you I saw him!” cried Richard.

“Saw him? When?”

“Hanging about the works here last night between nine and ten.”

“You did!” cried the foreman, eagerly.

“That I did, myself,” said Richard, while the vicar scanned his eager face so curiously that the young man winced.

Joe Banks stood thinking with knitted brow for a few moments, and then, just as Mrs Glaire was going to interpose, he held up his hand.

“Wait a moment, Missus,” he said. “Look here, Maister Richard, you said you saw Tom Podmore hanging about the works last night?”

“I did.”

“There’s nobbut one place wheer a chap could ha’ been likely to ha’ gotten in,” said Banks, thoughtfully. “Wheer might you ha’ sin him?”

“In the lane by the side.”

“That’s the place,” said the foreman, in a disappointed tone. “That theer window. Was he by hissen?”

“Yes, he was quite alone,” said Richard, flinching under this cross-examination.

“And what was you a-doing theer, Maister Richard, at that time?” said the foreman, curiously.

“I – I – ” faltered Richard, thoroughly taken aback by the sudden question; “I was walking down to go into the counting-house, with a sort of idea that I should like to see if the works were all right.”

“Ho!” said the foreman, shortly; and just then the eyes of the young men met, and it seemed to Richard that there was written in those of the vicar the one word, “Liar!”

“Did you speak, sir?” said Richard, blanching, and then speaking hotly.

“No, Mr Glaire, I did not speak, but I will, for I should like to say that from what I have seen of that young man Podmore, I do not think he is one who would be guilty of such a dastardly action.”

“How can you know?” said Richard, flushing up. “You only came to the town yesterday.”

“True,” said the vicar; “but this young man was my guide here, and I had some talk with him.”

“I hope you did him good,” said Richard, with an angry sneer.

“I hope I did, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, meaningly, “and I think I did, for he told me something of his life, and I gave him some advice.”

“Of course,” from Richard.

“Richard, my son, pray remember,” exclaimed Mrs Glaire.

“Oh yes, I remember, mother,” cried Richard, stung with rage by the doubting way in which his charge had been received; “but it is just as well that Mr Selwood here should learn at once that he’s not coming to Dumford to be master, and do what he likes with people.”

“It is far from my wish, Mr Glaire,” said the vicar, with a bright spot burning on each cheek, for he was young and impulsive too, but the spots died out, and he spoke very calmly. “My desire here is to be the counsellor and friend of both master and man – the trusty counsellor and faithful friend. My acquaintance with this young workman Podmore was short, but I gave him a few friendly words on his future action, and the result was that he came and fought for his master like a man when he was in the midst of an angry mob.”

“So he did, parson, so he did,” said Banks, bluntly.

“And came in a malicious, cowardly way at night to destroy my property,” cried Richard.

“Nay, nay, lad, nay,” said Banks, sturdily. “Parson’s raight. Tom Podmore ain’t the lad to do such a cowardly trick, and don’t you let it be known as you said it was him.”

“Let it be known!” said Richard, grinding his teeth. “Why, I’ll set the police after him, and have him transported as an example.”

“Nay, nay, lad,” said Banks, “wait a bit, and I’ll find out who did this. It wasn’t Tom Podmore – I’ll answer for that.”

“Let him prove it, then – and he shall,” cried Richard, who hardly believed it himself; but it was so favourable an opportunity for having an enemy on the hip, that he was determined, come what might, not to let it pass.

Five minutes later the parties separated, the works were shut up, and Richard Glaire did not reject the companionship of the vicar and the foreman to his own door, for there were plenty of lowering faces in the street – women’s as well as men’s; but the party were allowed to pass in sullen silence, for the strikers felt that “the maister” had something now of which to complain, and the better class of workmen were completely taken aback by the wanton destruction of the machinery bands.

Volume One – Chapter Thirteen.
The Foreman at Home

There had been a few words at Joe Banks’s plainly-furnished home when he returned the previous night.

Everything looked very snug – the plain, simple furniture shone in the lamplight, and a cosy meal was prepared, with Mrs Banks – a Daisy of a very ripened nature – sitting busily at work.

“Well, moother,” said Banks, as he entered and threw himself into a chair.

“Well, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, without looking up.

“Phee-ew!” whistled Joe, softly, as he took up the pipe laid ready beside the old, grey, battered, leaden tobacco-box, filled the bowl, and lit up before speaking again, Mrs Banks meanwhile making a cup of tea for him to have with his supper.

“Why didn’t you come home to tea, Joe – didn’t you know there was some pig cheer?”

“Bit of a row up at the works. Didn’t you know?”

“Bless us and save us, no!” cried Mrs Banks, nearly dropping the teapot, and hurrying to her husband’s side. “You’re not hurt, Joe?”

“Not a bit, lass. Give us a buss.”

Mrs Banks submitted ungraciously to a salute being placed upon her comely cheek, and then, satisfied that no one was hurt, she proceeded to fill up the pot, and resumed her taciturn behaviour.

“Owd woman’s a bit popped,” said Joe to himself. Then aloud, “Wheer’s Daisy?”

“That’s what I want to know,” said Mrs Banks, tartly. “Wheer’s Daisy? There’s no keeping the girl at home now-a-days, gadding about.”

“Is she up at the House?” said Joe. “I suppose so,” said Mrs Banks; “and, mark my words, Joe, no good ’ll come of it. It’s your doing, mind.”

“Nonsense, nonsense, old woman. What’s put you out? Come, let’s have some supper; I’m ’bout pined.”

“Then begin,” said Mrs Banks. “Not wi’out you, my lass,” said Joe, winking at the great broad-faced clock, as much as to say, “That’ll bring her round.”

“I don’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks. “More don’t I, then,” said Joe, with a sigh; and he got up, took off his coat, and then began to unlace his stout boots.

“Bless and save the man! wheer are you going?” exclaimed Mrs Banks.

“Bed,” said Joe, shortly. “Tired out.”

“What’s the use o’ me having sausages cooked and hot ready for you if you go on that a way, Joe?”

“I can’t eat sausages wi’out a smile wi’ ’em for gravy,” said Joe, quietly, “and some one to eat one too.”

“There, sit down,” said Mrs Banks, pushing her lord roughly into his well polished Windsor chair. “I don’t know what’s come to the man.”

“Come home straange and hungry,” said Joe, smiling; and the next minute, on Mrs Banks producing a steaming dish of home-made sausages from the oven, Joe began a tremendous onslaught upon them, after helping his wife, and putting a couple of the best on a plate.

“Just put them i’ the oven to keep hot for Daisy, wilt ta, my lass?” said Joe.

“She won’t want any supper,” said Mrs Banks, tartly, but she placed the plate in the oven all the same, and after pouring out some tea, set the teapot on the hob.

“But she may, my lass, she may,” said Joe. “Now, tell us what’s wrong,” he continued, with his mouth full, after pouring a large steaming cup of tea down his capacious throat.

“Tom Podmore’s been here,” said Mrs Banks. “Only just gone. Didn’t you meet him?”

“No,” said Joe. “Didn’t he say nowt about the row?”

“Not a word,” said Mrs Banks, looking up. “Was he in it?”

“Just was,” said Joe. “Saved me and the Maister from being knocked to pieces a’most. He’s a good plucky chap, is Tom.”

“Yes, and nicely he gets treated for it,” said Mrs Banks, hotly.

“Who treats him nicely?” said Joe, with half a slice of bread and butter disappearing.

“You – Daisy – everybody.”

“Self included, my lass!” said Joe. “He allus was a favourite of yours.”

“Favourite, indeed!” said Mrs Banks. “Joe, mark my words – It’ll come home to Daisy for jilting him as she’s done; and, as I told him to-night, he’s a great stupid ghipes to mind anything about the wicked, deceitful girl.”

“Here, have some more sausage, mother; it’s splendid; and don’t get running down your own flesh and blood.”

“Own flesh and blood!” cried Mrs Banks. “I’m ashamed of her.”

“No, you’re not, lass,” said Joe, with a broad grin. “Thou’rt as proud of her as a she peacock wi’ two tails. Now, lookye here, lass; you’ve took quite on that Daisy should have Tom. Well, he’s a decent young fellow enew, and if she’d liked him I should ha’ said nowt against it, but then she didn’t.”

“She don’t know her own mind,” said Mrs Banks.

“Oh yes, she do,” said Joe, smiling, “quite well; and so does some one else. The Missus has fun’ it out.”

“Mrs Glaire?”

“Yes, the Missus. She sent for me to-day to speak to me about it.”

“What, about her boy coming after our Daisy?”

“About Mr Richard Glaire, maister o’ Doomford Foundry, taking a fancy to, and having matrimonial projects with regard to his foreman’s daughter,” said Joe, pompously.

“Well!” exclaimed Mrs Banks, eagerly; “and does she like it?”

“Well – er – er – er – she’s about for and again it,” said Joe, slowly.

“Now that won’t do, Joe,” exclaimed Mrs Banks. “You can’t deceive me, and I’m not going to be put aside in that way. I know as well as if I’d ha’ been theer that she said she didn’t like.”

“Well, what does it matter about what the women think? Dick – I mean Maister Richard Glaire’s hard after her.”

“And means to marry her?” said Mrs Banks.

“Marry her? Of course. Didn’t Baxter, of Churley, marry Jane Kemp? Didn’t Bill Bradby, as was wuth fifty thousand, marry Polly Robinson of Toddlethorpe, and make a real lady of her, and she wasn’t fit to stand within ten yards o’ my Daisy.”

“Yes, go on,” said Mrs Banks. “That’s your pride.”

“Pride be blowed, it’s only a difference in money. Richard Glaire’s only my old fellow-workman’s son, and Daisy’s my daughter, and I can buy her as many silk frocks, and as many watches, and chains, and rings as any lady in the land need have,” said Joe, angrily, as he slapped his pocket. “I ain’t gone on saving for twenty years for nowt. She shan’t disgrace him when they’re married.”

“Yes, Joe, that’s your pride,” said Mrs Banks.

“Go it,” said Joe, angrily, “tant away – tant – tant – tant. I don’t keer.”

“It’s your pride, that’s what it is. When she might marry a decent, honest, true-hearted lad like Tom, who’s worth fifty Richard Glaires – an insignificant, stuck-up dandy.”

“Don’t you abuse him whose bread you eat,” said Joe.

“I don’t,” said Mrs Banks. “It’s his mother’s and not his. I believe he soon wouldn’t have a bit for himself, if it wasn’t for you keeping his business together. Always sporting and gambling, and fooling away his money.”

“Well, if I keep it together, it’s for our bairn, isn’t it?” said Joe.

“And he’s no better than he should be.”

“You let him alone,” said Joe, stoutly. “All young men are a bit wild ’fore they’re married. I was for one.”

“It’s a big story, Joe,” said Mrs Banks, indignantly. “You wasn’t, or I shouldn’t ha’ had you.”

Joe winked at the clock again, and laughed a little inside as he unbuttoned another button of his vest – the second beginning at the top – to keep count how many cups of tea he had had.

“It’s my opinion,” said Mrs Banks, “that – ”

“Howd thee tongue, wilt ta?” cried Joe. “Here’s the lass.”

Daisy entered as he spoke, looking very pale and anxious-eyed, hastened through the kitchen, and went upstairs to take off her hat and jacket.

“Just you make haste down, miss,” said Mrs Banks, tartly.

“I don’t want any supper, mother,” said the girl, hurriedly.

“Then I want thee to ha’e some!” exclaimed Mrs Banks; “so look sharp.”

Daisy gave a sigh and hurried upstairs, and, as the door closed, Joe brought his hand down on the table with a thump that made the cups and saucers dance.

“Now, look here, old woman – that’s my bairn, and I wean’t have her wherrited. If she is – ”

“I’m going to say what’s on my mind, Joe, when it’s for my child’s good,” said Mrs Banks, stoutly.

“Are you?” said Joe, taking another cup of tea and undoing another button; “then so am I. Lookye here, my lass! I wouldn’t ha’ took a step to throw Daisy in young Maister’s way, but as he’s took to her, why, I wean’t ha’ it interfered wi’ – so now, then.”

“Don’t blame me, then, Joe; that’s all,” said Mrs Banks.

“Who’s going to?” said Joe. “So now let’s have none of your clat.”

Daisy came in then, and took her place at the table, making a very sorry pretence at eating, and only speaking in monosyllables till her mother pressed her.

“Did Mrs Glaire send you home with anybody?”

“No, mother.”

“Did you come home alone?”

“No, mother.”

“Humph: who came with you?”

“Tom, mother.”

Mrs Banks looked mollified, and Joe surprised.

“Has Miss Eve been playing to you, to-night?”

“No, mother.”

“What have you been doing then?”

“I – I – haven’t been at the House,” stammered Daisy.

Joe turned sharply round.

“Have you been a-walking with Tom, then?”

“No, mother, I only met him – coming home – and he walked beside me,” said the girl, with crimson cheeks.

“Theer, theer, theer,” said Joe, interposing, “let the bairn alone. Daisy, my lass, mak’ me a round o’ toast.”

How Joe was going to dispose of a round of toast after the meal he had already devoured was a problem; but Daisy darted a grateful look at him, made the toast – which was not eaten – and then, after the things were cleared away, read for an hour to her father, straight up and down the columns of the week-old county paper, till it was time for bed, without a single interruption.

But Mrs Banks made up for it when they went to bed, and the last words Joe heard before going to sleep were —

“Well, Joe, I wash my hands of the affair. It’s your doing, and she’s your own bairn.”

And Joe Banks went to sleep, and dreamed of seeing himself in a new suit of clothes, throwing an old shoe after Daisy as she was being carried off by Richard Glaire in a carriage drawn by four grey horses, the excitement being such that he awoke himself in the act of crying “Hooray!” while poor Daisy was kneeling by her bedside, sobbing as though she would break her heart.

Volume One – Chapter Fourteen.
Sim Slee Sees Another Opening

“Here, just hap me up a bit,” said Sim Slee to his wife, as he lay down on a rough kind of couch in their little keeping-room, as the half sitting-room, half kitchen was called; and in obedience to the command, Mrs Slee happed him up – in other words, threw a patchwork counterpane over her lord.

“If you’d come home at reasonable times and tak’ thee rest you wouldn’t be wantin’ to sleep in the middle o’ the day,” said Mrs Slee, roughly.

“Ah, a deal you know about things,” grumbled Sim. “You’d see me starved with cold before you’d stir, when I was busy half the night over the affairs of the town.”

“I’stead o’ your own,” grumbled Mrs Slee.

“Howd thee tongue, woman,” said Sim. “I’m not going to sleep, but to think over matters before I go and see Joe Banks this afternoon. I can think best lying down.”

Mrs Slee resumed her work, which was that of making a hearthrug of shreds of cloth, and soon after Sim was thinking deeply with his mouth open, and his breath coming and going with an unpleasant gurgle.

As soon as he was asleep, Mrs Slee began busily to prepare the humble dinner that was cooking, and spread the clean white table for her lord’s meal. A table-cloth was a luxury undreamed of, but on so white a table it did not seem necessary.

When all was ready, she went across the room and touched Sim, who opened his eyes and rose.

“That’s better,” he said. “I feel as tiff as a band now. Where’s the Rag Jack’s oil?”

Without a word, Mrs Slee went to a little cupboard and produced a dirty-looking bottle of the unpleasant-looking liquid, one which was looked upon in the district as an infallible cure for every kind of injury, from cuts and bruises down to chilblains, and the many ailments of the skin.

“How did you do that?” said Mrs Slee, sharply, as her husband held out a finger that was torn and evidently festering.

“Somebody was nation fast the other day, and pulled me off the foundry wall.”

“Where you’d got up to speak, eh?” said Mrs Slee.

“Where I’d got up to speak,” said Sim, holding his hand, while his wife dressed it with the balm composed by the celebrated Rag Jack, a dealer who went round from market to market, and then tied it up in a bit of clean linen.

“That’s better,” said Sim, taking his place at the table. “What is there to yeat?”

“There’d be nothing if it was left to you – but wind,” said his wife, sourly, as she took the lid off a boiler, hanging from the recking-hooks of the galley balk, and proceeded to take out some liquid with a tea-cup.

“But, then, it ain’t,” said Sim, smiling. “You see, I knew where to pick up a good missus.”

“Yes,” retorted his wife, “and then tried to pine her to dead for all you’d do to feed her. Will ta have a few broth?”

“Yes,” said Sim, taking the basin she offered him and sniffing at it. “Say, wife, you’ve been waring your money at a pretty rate.”

“I’ve wared no money ower that,” said Mrs Slee. “Thou mayst thank parson for it.”

“Yah!” growled Sim, dipping his spoon, and beginning angrily; “this mutton’s as tough as a bont whong.”

“There, do sup thee broth like a Christian, if thee canst!” exclaimed Mrs Slee. “Wilt ta have a tate?”

Sim held out his basin for the “tate” his wife was denuding of its jacket, and she dropped it into the broth.

“Say!” exclaimed Sim, poking at the potato with his spoon, “these taters are strange and sad.”

Mrs Slee did not make any reply, but went on peeling potatoes one by one, evidently in search of a floury one to suit her husband, who objected to those of a waxy or “sad” nature. But they were all alike, and he had to be content.

“I’ll have a few more broth,” said Sim, at the end of a short space of time, and before his wife had had an opportunity to partake of a mouthful; and this being ladled out for him and finished, Sim condescended to say “that them broth wasn’t bad.”

“Have you got any black beer?” he now asked.

Mrs Slee had – a little, and the bottle of black beer, otherwise spruce, being produced, Sim had a teaspoonful of the treacly fluid mixed in a mug of hot water with a little sugar; and then, leaving his wife to have her meal, he rose and went out.

A week had passed since the discovery of the loss of the bands, and though Sim had been dodging about and watching in all directions, he had never once hit upon Joe Banks alone, so he had at last made up his mind to go straight to his house, and, to use his own words, “beard the lion in his den.”

A good deal had taken place in the interval, and among other things, Richard Glaire, in opposition to the advice of his mother and Banks, had applied for a warrant against Tom Podmore, for destroying or stealing the bands; but as yet, from supineness or fear on the part of the local police, it had not been put in force.

For things did not look pleasant in Dumford; men were always standing about in knots or lounging at the doors of their houses, looking loweringly at people who passed. There had been no violence, and, in a prosperous little community, a week or two out of work had little effect upon a people of naturally saving habits and considerable industry; but those who were wise in such matters said that mischief was brewing, and it was reported that meetings were held nightly at the Bull and Cucumber – meetings of great mystery, where oaths were taken, and where the doors were closed and said to be guarded by men with drawn swords.

“Hallo, Sim Slee, off preaching somewhere?” said a very stout man, pulling up his horse as he overtook Sim on his way to the foreman’s house. He was indeed a very stout man, so stout that he completely filled the gig from side to side, making its springs collapse, and forming a heavy load for his well-fed horse.

“No, I ain’t going preaching nowheer, Mester Purley,” said Sim, sulkily, as he looked up sidewise in the speaker’s merry face.

“I thought you were off perhaps to a camp meeting, or something, Sim, and as I’m going out as far as Roby, I was going to offer you a lift along the road.”

There was a twinkle in the stout man’s eyes as he spoke, and he evidently enjoyed the joke.

“No, you warn’t going to offer me a ride, doctor,” said Sim. “Do you think I don’t know?”

“Right, Sim Slee, right,” said the doctor, chuckling. “I never gave a man a lift on the road in my life, did I, Sim? Puzzle any one to sit by my side here, wouldn’t it?”

“Strange tight fit for him if he did,” said Sim.

“So it would, Sim; so it would, Sim,” laughed the doctor. “I’ve asked a many though in my time; ha – ha – ha.”

“That you have, doctor,” said Sim, looking at the goodly proportions of the man by his side. For it was Mr – otherwise Dr – Purley’s one joke to ask everybody he overtook, or any of his convalescent patients, if they would have a lift in his gig. He had probably fired the joke as many times as he was days old; but it was always in use, and it never struck him that it might grow stale.

“What’s the matter with your hand, Sim?” said the doctor, touching the bound-up member with his whip.

“Bit hurt – fell off a wall,” said Sim, thrusting it in his breast.

“And you have been poisoning it with Rag Jack oil, eh? I’ll be bound you have, and when it’s down bad you’ll come to me to cure it. Say, Sim, some of your fellows knocked the young master about pretty well – he’s rare and bruised.”

“I wish ivery bit of gruzzle in his body was bruzz,” said Sim, fiercely.

“Do you now!” said the doctor, smiling. “Well, I suppose it’ll come to broken heads with some of you, and then you’ll be glad of me. Who stole the bands?”

Sim jumped and turned pale, so suddenly and sharply was the question asked.

“How should I know?” he cried, recovering himself.

“Some of you chaps at the Bull, eh, Sim? Artful trick, very. Say, Sim, if you want a doctor for your society, remember me. Ck!” This last was to the horse, which went off immediately at a sharp trot, with the springs of the gig dancing up and down, as the wheels went in and out of the ruts.

“Remember you, eh!” said Sim, as the doctor went out of hearing. “Have you for the medical man? Yes, when we want ivery word as is spoke blabbed all over the place. It’s my belief,” continued Sim, sententiously, “as that fat old blobkite tells the last bit o’ news, to every baby as soon as it’s born, and asks them as he’s killed whether they’d like a ride in his gig. Hallo! there’s owd Joe Banks leaning over his fence. What a fierce-looking old maulkin he is; he looks as sour as if he’d been yeating berry pie wi’out sugar. Day, Banks,” he said, stopping.

“Day,” said Joe, shortly, and staring very hard at the visitor.

“I think it’ll rean soon, mun.”

“Do yow?” said Joe, roughly.

“I weer over to Churley yesterday,” said Sim, “and it reant all day.”

“Did it?” said Joe.

“Ay, it did. ’Twas a straange wet day.”

“Where are you going?” said Joe.

“Oh, only just up to Brown’s to see if I could buy a bit o’ kindling for the Missus.”

“Go and buy it, then,” said Joe, turning his back, “and let me get shut o’ thee.”

“Say, Joe Banks,” said Sim, quite unabashed, “as I have met thee I should just like to say a word or two to thee.”

“Say away then.”

“Nay, nay. Not here. Say, mun, that’s a fine primp hedge o’ yourn,” he continued, pointing to the luxuriant privet hedge that divided the garden of the snug house from the road.

“You let my primp hedge bide,” said Joe, sharply; “and if you’ve got any mander o’ message from your lot, spit it out like a man.”

“Message! I a message!” said Sim, with a surprised air. “Not I. It was a word or two ’bout thy lass.”

Joe Banks’s face became crimson, and he turned sharply to see if any one was at door or window so as to have overheard Sim’s words.

As there was no one, he came out of the gate, took his caller’s arm firmly in his great fist, and walked with him down the lane out of sight of the houses, for the foreman’s pretty little place was just at the edge of the town, and looked right down the valley.

Sim’s heart beat a little more quickly, and he felt anything but comfortable; but, calling up such determination as he possessed, he walked on till Joe stopped short, faced him, and then held up a menacing finger.

“Now look here, Sim Slee,” said Joe; “I just warn thee to be keerful, for I’m in no humour to be played wi’.”

“Who wants to play wi’ you?” said Sim; “I just come in a neighbourly way to gi’e ye a bit o’ advice, and you fly at me like a lion.”

“Thou’rt no neighbour o’ mine,” said Joe, “and thou’rt come o’ no friendly errant. Yow say yow want to speak to me ’bout my lass. Say thee say.”

“Oh, if that’s the way you tak’ it,” said Sim, “I’m going.”

“Nay, lad, thee ain’t,” said Joe. “Say what thee’ve got to say now, for not a step do yow stir till yo’ have.”

Sim began to repent his visit; but seeing no way of escape, and his invention providing him with no inoffensive tale, he began at once, making at the same time a good deal of show of his bound-up hand, and wincing and nursing it as if in pain.

“Well, Joe Banks, as a man for whom, though we have differed in politics and matters connected with the wucks, I always felt a great respect – ”

“Dal thee respect!” said Joe; “come to the point, man.”

“I say, Joe, that it grieves me to see thee stick so to a mester as is trying to do thee an injury.”

“An yow want to talk me over to join thy set o’ plotting, conspiring shackbags at the Bull, eh?”