{"collection":"folklore-oral-tradition","full_text_available":true,"graph_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/api/page/gutenberg_41795/graph","html_url":"https://unchartedknowledge.5gfusion.net/v2/page/gutenberg_41795","id":"gutenberg_41795","license":"Public Domain (US)","rights_basis":"gutenberg_metadata_copyright_false","source":"gutenberg","source_url":"https://www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/41795","summary":null,"tags":["Category: British Literature","Category: Short Stories","Folklore -- England -- Northumberland"],"text":"TALES OF NORTHUMBRIA\n\n\n\n\n    BY THE SAME AUTHOR\n\n    BORDERLAND STUDIES\n    THE MARK O' THE DEIL\n    THE WHITE-FACED PRIEST\n\n\n\n\n    TALES OF\n    NORTHUMBRIA\n\n    BY\n    HOWARD PEASE\n\n    METHUEN & CO.\n    36 ESSEX STREET, W.C.\n    LONDON\n\n    1899\n\n\n\n\n    TO\n    EARL GREY\n\n    EVER KEENLY INTERESTED IN WHATEVER\n    CONCERNS HIS NATIVE COUNTY\n    THESE SKETCHES OF NORTHUMBRIAN CHARACTER\n    ARE DEDICATED BY THE AUTHOR\n\n\n\n\nCONTENTS\n\n\n                                         PAGE\n\n    NORTHUMBERLAND                          1\n\n    'A LONG MAIN'                           7\n\n    THE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE                 29\n\n    \u00c0 L'OUTRANCE                           41\n\n    'T'OWD SQUIRE'                         59\n\n    AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE                79\n\n    'IN MEMORIOV'M'                       109\n\n    'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK          121\n\n    THE 'CALEB JAY'                       133\n\n    GEORDIE ARMSTRONG 'THE JESU-YTE'      147\n\n    'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG'              165\n\n    YANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN           187\n\n    THE PROT\u00c9G\u00c9                           209\n\n    THE SPANISH DOUBLOON                  243\n\n\n\n\nThe tales that go to make up this small volume have already appeared\nin print: the first part of the Introduction, 'A Long Main,' 'In\nMemoriov'm,' in the _National Observer_; 'The Prot\u00e9g\u00e9,' in the\n_Queen_; 'Quaker John and Yankee Bill,' 'T'Owd Squire,' 'An Ammytoor\nDetective,' in the _Newcastle Courant_; '\u00c0 l'Outrance,' in the\n_Newcastle Weekly Chronicle_; and the remaining six in the _Newcastle\nDaily Leader_. I desire to tender my thanks herewith to the various\neditors concerned.\n\n\n\n\nTALES OF NORTHUMBRIA\n\n\n\n\nNORTHUMBERLAND\n\n\nIt is generally admitted that your Northumbrian pre-eminently\npossesses the quality which the pious but worldly Scotchman was used\nto pray for, namely, 'a guid conceit o' hissel'.'\n\nIt is the more unfortunate, therefore, that of late years a\nconsiderable landslip should have taken place in the ground whereon\nhis reputation rested.\n\nThe local poet no longer hymns the 'Champions o' Tyneside,' for\nChambers and Renforth and other heroes have long since departed,\nleaving 'no issue.'\n\nAdvancing civilization, again, has, it is to be feared, made havoc of\nthe proud insularity of the Northumbrian squirearchy. No longer are\nthey content, like the Osbaldistones of yore, to devote themselves to\ncellar and stable, to stay at home, contemptuous of London and its\npolitics, of travel and of new ideas. 'Markham's Farriery' and the\n'Guide to Heraldry' have lost their pristine charm, and the\nNorthumbrian is, as a consequence, foregoing his ancient\ncharacteristics merely to become provincial.\n\n'Geordie Pitman' alone makes a stand against all modern innovation.\nFirm in his pele tower of ancient superiority, he is still convinced\nof the superiority of all things Northumbrian.\n\n'Champions' may have died out elsewhere, and patriotism be decayed in\nthe higher social ranks, but in the pit-village there still lingers an\nadmirable quantity of the old self-love.\n\nIn each separate village you may find some half-dozen self-styled\n'champions' who will match themselves against 'any man in the world'\nfor \u00a310 or \u00a315 a side at their own particular hobby or pastime.\n\nDefeat has little effect upon a 'champion': like Ant\u00e6us, he picks\nhimself up the stronger for a fall, and having advertised himself in\nthe papers as 'not being satisfied' with his beating, challenges\nanother attempt forthwith.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nNow this self-satisfaction--though somewhat decayed of late--is\nprobably one of the oldest strains in the Northumbrian character,\nhaving been developed, doubtless, in the first instance, under stress\nof constant raid and foray, and but little affected thereafter--owing\nto the remoteness of the county both from the universities and from\nLondon--by the higher standards of softer and more civilized centres.\n\nAfter this, the next most predominant trait is a love of sport, for\nwhich the climate, together with the physical conformation of the\ncounty, may be held responsible; for the open aspect of the plain, the\ncrown of bare western hills, the wind-swept moorland and the sea,\nsuggest a life of hard endurance and fatigue, the strenuous toil of\nthe hunter, the keen excitements of the chase.\n\nStill, as of old, the wide and spreading grasslands try horse and\nrider with a tempting challenge, as of one who cries, 'Come, who will\ntire first?' The music of the hounds sweeps down the brae:\n'Yoi--yoi--yoi!' quivers the cry from the streaming pack. Onward the\nrider gallops, the plover perchance rising at his horse's heels, the\nlong note of the curlew sounding in his ears, the breath of the west\nwind racing in his nostrils; he may see on this side the purple bar of\nCheviot, on the other the blue, flat line of the sea, and\ntherewith--if ever in his life--may taste of the primeval joy of\nliving--of the joy of the early hunter who lived with his horse as\nwith a comrade, drew from the sea the 'sacred fish,' from the moorland\nthe 'winged fowl,' and knew not discontent.\n\nThe beauty of the southern counties is not to be met with here.\n\nThe south is the well-dowered matron, the north a bare-headed\ngipsy-lass, freckled with sun and wind, who 'fends' for her living\nwith strategies of hand and head.\n\nStill, in the northern blood, the heritage of the 'raid' and the\n'foray' abides, and still, as of old, are the children of the\nBorderland nursed by the keen wind of the moorland and the sea. 'Hard\nand heather-bred' ran the ancient North-Tyne slogan; 'hard and\nheather-bred--yet--yet--yet.'\n\n\n\n\n'A LONG MAIN'\n\n\n'So you're a county family?' I echoed, and, though it may have been\nimpolite, I could not forbear a smile, for never had I seen County\nFamily so well disguised before.\n\n'Ay,' replied Geordie Crozier, 'I is,' and forthwith proceeded to\nsearch in the pocket of his pit-knickerbockers for his 'cutty.' He had\njust come up to 'bank' from the 'fore-shift,' and was leaning on a\nwaggon on the pit-heap, about to have a smoke before going home for a\n'wesh,' dinner, and bed. 'The last ov us,' he continued, having lit\nhis pipe, 'that had Crozier Hall was grandfeythor--Jake Crozier, of\nCrozier Hall, was his name an' address, an'--an'--I's his relics.'\n\nI glanced at the 'relics' afresh--six foot two if he was an inch, and\nbroad in proportion, a magnificent pair of arms--he was champion hewer\nat the colliery--with legs to match, though slightly bowed through the\nconstant stooping underground. Under the mask of coal-dust his eyes\ngleamed like pearls, and a thrusting lower lip, backed by a square\njaw, gave evidence of determination and the faculty of enjoyment. A\nshort, well-trimmed beard put the finishing touch to 'the Squire,' for\nso his friends styled him, half in jest.\n\n'Well, and how was it lost?' said I. 'Was \"cellar and stable,\" the\ngood old Northumbrian motto, his epitaph? Or did your grandfather take\nan even quicker road to the bailiffs?'\n\n'Grandfeythor was like us, I b'lieve; he was a fine spender but an ill\nsaver, an' he had a h---- ov a time till the mortgages gave oot, for\nhe was a tarr'ble tasteful man--lasses, greyhounds, an' horses,\nracin', drinkin', cockin', an' card-playin' were aal hobbies ov his at\none time or another, but what was warse than aal this put togither was\nthat he never wud be beat. Everything he had must be the best, an' the\nfact that anythin' belonged to him was quite enough to prove to him it\nwas the best o' the sort i' the county. Well, for a while as a young\nman things went well wi' him. He win the Plate[1] two years runnin',\nan' many was the cock-fight an' coursin' match he pulled off wiv his\ncocks an' his hounds; but there was a chap came oot o' Aadcastle who\nwas one too many for him at the finish. This chap had made a vast o'\nbrass i' the toon at ship-buildin' or such like, an' bein' wishful to\nset hisself up as a big pot, had hired a big place next grandfeythor's\ni' the country. Well, grandfeythor couldn't abide him, for, bein' a\nred-hot Tory, he didn't believe i' one man bein' as good as another at\naal, an' when, as happened shortlies, his neighbour's son came\nsweetheartin' his daughter, he says, \"No Crozier lass ever yet married\na shopkeeper's son, an' they never shall as long as I'm above\nground--orffice boys mun marry wi' orffice gals,\" says he.\n\n'Well, the lad's feythor was tarr'ble vext at this, an' he swears\nhe'll have his revenge on the Squire--an' it wasn't long before he got\nhis opportunity.\n\n'He'd set hissel' up as a sportin' man, ye ken, when he come to the\ncountry, an' wes tarr'ble keen o' shootin' wiv a gun, an' occasionally\nhe meets grandfeythor at a shootin' party, an' always takes the\nopportunity to differ from him i' a polite sort o' way on every topic\nunder the sun.\n\n'Well, after their dinners one day, grandfeythor, bein' fairly full up\nwi' beer, ye ken, begins sneering at all toon's folk settin' up as\nsportsmen. \"It stan's to reason,\" says he, \"if a man's forbears have\nnever handled a gun, nor shot nowt mevvies[2] but a hoody crow or a\nseagull on a holiday, that the bairns canna shoot either, for it's\nbred an' born in a man--it's part o' his birthright, like a fam'ly\njool,\" says he; \"a heditary gift, the same as a proper knowledge o'\nhorseflesh, fightin' cocks, greyhounds an' aal; money won't buy it,\nan' it's no use argifyin' aboot it, for it's a fact, and the will o'\nProvidence,\" says he.\n\n'Noo, when grandfeythor got on aboot Providence, most folks, I\nb'lieve, used to say nowt, but Smithson--that was the chap's name--he\ngies a sort o' tee-hee at this oot loud, which would be the same as if\nyou or me were to say, \"It's just d----d nonsense.\"\n\n'Well, there was a tarr'ble tow-row at this, grandfeythor as red as a\nbubbly-jock an' swearin' like a drunken fishwife, and Smithson as\npolite as a counter-jumper wiv his \"pardon me's\" and \"pray be seated,\nsirs\"--aal to no effect.\n\n'At the finish, when matters were quieted doon a bit, Smithson offers\nto back hissel' at a shootin' match wi' grandfeythor for \u00a31,000 a\nside, an' also at a cockin' match--\"a long main\" it was to be--twenty\nbattles at \u00a3100 the \"battle\" and \u00a31,000 the \"main.\"\n\n'Well, aal the comp'ny thought it was just a bit swagger on the part\no' Smithson, an' that when the time came he'd just cry off an' pay\nforfeit, for the match was to take place in three weeks' time, and\nnever a cock had Smithson in his place ava, whereas grandfeythor, he\nhad a rare breed, the best i' the county--mixed Rothbury an'\nFelton--an' the old Felton breed was the one the King o' England win\nhis brass ower formerly.\n\n'The time comes, an' the comp'ny is aal assembled i' the cock-pit at\nBridgeton, grandfeythor, full o' beans an' bounce, backin' hissel'\nlike a prize-fighter, takin' snuff an' handin' roon' the box to his\nfriends, an' sayin' noo an' again, \"Where's that dam' fellow\nSmithson?\"\n\n'Well, the clock on the old tower was just on the stroke of ten, when\nin saunters Smithson, cool as a ha'penny ice, an' behind him, in green\nand gold liv'ries, come ten flunkies each wi' two big bags behind his\nshoulder, an' in each bag a tarr'ble fine fightin' cock.\n\n'Where he'd gathered them nobody knew save old Ned Stevison--an\nancient old cock-fighter o' Bridgeton, who loved cocks more than many\na man his missus. \"The Moonlight Breed\" he called them, but they had a\nstrain of the famous old Lord Derby's breed i' them, and were blood\nuns to the bone.\n\n'Some half dozen were Stevison's own, but the remainder 'twas said he\nhad stolen from awa doon Sooth for Smithson, an' anyways \"Captain\nMoonlight\" was his nickname ever afterwards.\n\n'Well, they weighs aal the cocks; from six to six and a half pounds\ntheir weight was to be, an' the fight commences.\n\n'Bob Stevison fought Smithson's cocks for him, an' grandfeythor fought\nhis own, kneelin' doon on the cock-pit floor wiv his coat off so as to\nhandle them the better.\n\n'The first two or three battles grandfeythor wins easy, Stevison using\nhis warst cocks at the first, d'ye see, oot o' craft mevvies to get\nlonger odds i' the bettin', so that at one time grandfeythor was five\nbattles to two to the good; a bit later it was eight all, an' the\nexcitement was immense, bets flyin' aboot like snowflakes at\nChristmas.\n\n'Then Stevison oots wiv a beauty--a perfect picture it was ov a\nfighter; eyes like a furnace at night, liftin' his legs like a Derby\nwinner, wings an' tail clipped short--aal glossy wi' health an'\nshinin' like mahogany.\n\n'Stevison runs him up an' doon the floor to heat his blood, an' tweaks\na feather doon from his rump--that was a clever trick he had, to\nmadden his cock just before the start--an' holds him ready for the\nbattle.\n\n'Then grandfeythor, he oots wiv his champion cock--\"Stingo,\" he called\nhim--an old favouryte ov his, a gran' bird too, six years old, an' a\nlittle past his prime mevvies, though he'd never lost a battle in his\nlife.\n\n'As soon as they sees each other \"Stingo\" gies a bit triumphant crow,\nan' leans forward from his master's hand to try an' nip hold o' the\nother wiv his beak. The other says nowt, just looks at him wi' fiery\neyes red hot wi' murder, an' as soon as ever his feet touch the\nsawdust bends low, then springs straight for Stingo, drivin' wiv his\nspur o' shinin' steel right for his heart.\n\n'Just i' the nick o' time Stingo leaps i' the air to meet him; there's\na \"click, click,\" \"click, click,\" as o' daggers crossin', an' pantin'\nfrom the shock, doon sinks either bird to the ground.\n\n'Stevison's mouth was tremblin' like a bairn's as he took his\nfavouryte up, for there was blood on his lower breast feathers, but\nStingo wasn't touched ava, an' grandfeythor, puffed oot wi' pride,\nclaps a bit mair o' the fam'ly property on to his champion.\n\n'It was a bit lesson for the other cock; he was just as determined as\never, but a bit quieter like; round an' round Stingo he goes like a\nprize-fighter, clickin' in noo an' again as he thought he saw his\nopenin', an' when they grappled tegither wi' their beaks, though his\ncomb was almost torn in two, he hammered for Stingo's eye as a\nblacksmith hammers on his anvil.\n\n'After about fifteen minutes neither cock could stand straight; at a\ndistance you'd have said they was both as drunk as my lord; both were\ndrippin' blood; Stingo had lost an' eye, an' neither o' t'other's were\nmuch use to him, bein' bunged up wi' bruised flesh. They staggered\naboot here an' there; knocked up against each other in a blind-man's\n\"beg-pardin\" sort o' way. Every noo and again the Moonlight cock would\npull himself together, hop feebly into the air, an' strike wiv his\nspurs, but as often as not the air was all he hit, for, his eyesight\nbein' aal askew, he couldn't aim straight, an' doon he would flop on\nhis tail end, coughin' an' choakin' wi' blood--powerless, yet mad to\ngan on fightin'.\n\n'At the finish he gets Stingo pinned up against the cockpit bars, an',\nthinkin' he has him noo, gies a feeble craw, lifts hissel' into the\nair, an' claps for his heart wiv his spurs.\n\n'There was a bit clash in the held-breath stillness of the place, then\na tiny moan, an', by Gox! there was Moonlight lyin' flat on his back\non the sawdust wiv one leg broke in two an' danglin' wiv its spur like\na watch-chain on his breast.\n\n'Such a hullaballoo as there was, grandfeythor yellin' like an Injun!\n\"Pick up yo'r bird,\" he cries, \"he's a dead un!\" for there was Stingo\na-top o' Moonlight peckin' at what was left ov his head-piece like a\nblackbird at a snail.\n\n'Stevison never moved, but his gills went flutterin' like those ov a\ndyin' fish; he couldn't speak, but I b'lieve he was prayin' for his\nfavouryte.\n\n'A minute passed, then Moonlight comes to; he beats wiv his wings,\nstruggles, crawls an inch or two, manages to shake off Stingo, then\nhoistin' hissel' up once again wiv his one leg an' wings slashes wiv\nhis spur, and by the damn'dest luck lands it in Stingo's eye.\n\n'Doon in a motionless heap they falls, an' when they're separated\nStingo's dead as a leg o' mutton.\n\n'The rest o' the comp'ny yells and shouts; some says Moonlight's a\ndead un, too, an' it's a drawn battle, an' grandfeythor, he swears his\nbird can still fight, while Stevison, unable to find his voice, picks\nup Moonlight, an' finally claps a great kiss on to the middle ov his\nback, an' when he sets him doon again wiv a drop brandy in his mouth\nhe sets up a feeble craw of defiance, plainly axin', \"Who the deevil\nsays I's a dead un?\"\n\n'After that it was all up wi' grandfeythor; the stuffin' seemed\nknocked oot o' him an' his cocks by the loss ov his favouryte, an' in\nthe next battle another of his best birds had his heart squashed oot,\nlike a ripe gooseberry, at the vary first encounter.\n\n'It was a black day that for grandfeythor, but, as I was sayin' at the\nstart, he never gies in, an' he comforts hissel' wi' thinkin' he'd\nmake matters square up an' a bit to spare by the shootin' match which\nwas to follow in a fortnight's time.\n\n'Smithson had agreed to shoot off the match at Crozier Hall, for\ngrandfeythor had aboot the best shootin' in the county at the time,\nan' there was one place famous for the grand shots ye got overhead\nbetween two woods planted on either side of a dene, ye ken.\n\n'There was stubbles an' beanfields usuallies beyond, an' the\npheasants, when driven off, used to fly right across the haugh below\nover into the woods beyond--mevvies aboot two hundred yards awa'.\n\n'Well, the great day comes. A fine, sunshiny October day it was, wiv a\nbit o' wind from the west--the way the birds was to fly, ye ken, an' a\ntarr'ble big comp'ny was assembled to see grandfeythor gie \"the\nfurrinor\" his gruel.\n\n'Grandfeythor was i' tremendous spirits that mornin', an' as full o'\ngob as a torkey-cock; nothin' could hold him; the world was a toy to\nhim--like the geography chap[3] i' the bairns' books, ye ken--he felt\nsae tarr'ble strong an' healthy. \"Eyeball clear as a bairn's,\" says\nhe, \"hand steady as a rock, digestion a marvel,\" an' he pats hissel'\non the stomach as pleased as Punch.\n\n'They tosses as to who shoots first, an' the coin comes doon for\ngrandfeythor, an' mighty delighted he was to be the first to shoot.\nThere wasn't much chance o' grandfeythor's bettin' as much as he\nwished for, for naebody thought Smithson had a chanst, but what he\ncould get he gobbled up like a hungry trout--fearfu' odds they\nwas--six to one on himself he had to lay, an' often a bit more.\n\n'The match was for \u00a31,000 a side, a hundred shots each at the first\nhundred pheasants within shot, an' the referee to decide any disputed\npoints.\n\n'Grandfeythor takes up his stand aboot thirty yards awa' from the\nwood's edge; then the referee fires a pistol, the head-beater i' the\nwood above waves a white flag, an' there's a dead stillness as though\nwe were aal i' church prayin'.\n\n'There was a big clump o' fir-trees standin' right oot from the thick\no' the wood's edge about fifty yards off mevvies, an' two o' the firs\nstood oot high above their fellows, an' that was where the pheasants\nalways broke oot, whizzin' up like rockets as they came ower the top\no' them, an' it was just at that point that grandfeythor had always\nnicked them clever--just as they cleared the rise of the topmost tree,\nye ken, an' started on their level flight for the opposite side. If ye\nmissed them i' front ye hadn't much chanst behind, for they swept awa'\nlike lightnin' doon the wind before ye could get turned round. Well,\naal was stillness as I said, when sudden there comes a far-away cry\nthrough the clear air--\"Cock forrard, cock forrard!\" an' in another\ntwo seconds there comes a clap o' wings from above. Bang! gans\ngrandfeythor's gun, as a fine cock sweeps overhead. \"D----!\" says he,\nwiv a flush on his cheek; for aal there was to show was some\nhalf-dozen tail feathers left twirlin', as if in mock'ry, forty yards\nin the air above him.\n\n'\"Cock forrard, cock forrard!\" comes the cry again, an' grandfeythor\ngrips a firmer stand wiv his feet, an' grasps his weapon a bit tighter\nthan before. Bang, bang! this time, an' the cock gies a frightful\nlurch as though about to fall headlong, but steadies hissel', rises a\nbit, an' wins over to the other side.\n\n'\"H----!\" yells grandfeythor, trembling wi' rage, an' stamps upon the\nground. \"Cock forrard, cock forrard!\" again comes the beater's cry,\nan' half a dozen come flightin' overhead at once.\n\n'Bang! once again, an' grandfeythor wiv a groan flings his gun to the\nground, for he had missed altogether that time.\n\n'\"I'm fair bewitched,\" he cries, and aal the while the pheasants were\nstreamin' overhead.\n\n'He trembled aal over, an' we thought he was gannin' to have a fit,\nfor his brow was damp wi' drops o' sweat, an' his eye wild an' glassy.\n\"Thoo damned fellow,\" he cries, glancing round at Smithson, an' takes\na step towards him, \"thoo's cozened me somehow, thoo must have\npoisoned my beer!\" he yells.\n\n'\"Steady, sir, for God's sake, steady!\" says the keeper in his ear,\nan' offers him his gun again ready loaded for another shot, for aal\nthe while the pheasants came liftin' above their heads.\n\n'Well, he takes it up again, looks at it an' feels as though he didn't\nrecognise it, as though it had injured him somehow, an', tremblin' aal\nover, takes up a stand again. After a shot or two he kills one in\nbeautiful style, an' gradually getting back a bit o' confidence he\ngets warmed up, an' at the finish he has seventy-five oot o' the\nhundred--oot o' the last twenty never missin' one.\n\n'And noo it was Smithson's turn.\n\n'He makes a splendid start, wipin' up the first fifteen birds wivvoot\nan error; after that again the pheasants come wilder, an' gettin'\nflurried belike, he tailors them. Then he gets steadied once more, an'\nat the finish has ten cartridges left an' seventy birds doon.\n\n'A wunnerfu' chap for nerve he was, was Smithson; the mair excitement\nthe cooler he gets.\n\n'A hen pheasant comes sailin' awa' to the right some sixty yards off.\n\n'\"In shot?\" asked he, as though he were passin' the time o' day.\n\n'\"Shoot,\" cries the referee, an' ping, ping! gans two cartridges, but\nhe cannot stop her, she was ower far off, though she left a trail o'\nfeathers ahint her.\n\n'He gets another fearfu' hard one to the left this time, an' it takes\ntwo cartridges to settle number seventy-one--six cartridges left an'\nfive birds to bag.\n\n'Wow! but the excitement was painfu', an' folks fell to bettin' i'\nquick whispers, \"Two to one against Smithson,\" an' he takes it wiv a\nnod, smilin' if you please.\n\n'The next three he gets, then he misses a longish shot, two cartridges\nleft an' two birds to knock doon.\n\n'Here they come--two cocks high together overhead--be-eauties; suthin'\nseems wrang wi' trigger or cartridge, an' Smithson misses first\nbarrel.\n\n'\"I've won!\" yells grandfeythor, an' tosses his cap i' the air. Bang!\nsays Smithson's second barrel, an' doon comes the two cock pheasants\ntogither. The first had swerved, d'ye see, an' jostled up against the\nsecond, an' Smithson cops 'em both wiv his last cartridge an' wins on\nthe post, seventy-six to seventy-five. Gox! but it was the nearest\ntouch an' go thing ever seen i' the North Country, I's warn'd, an' wi'\nthat last cartridge bang gans Crozier Hall.'\n\n'Was there any trickery?' I inquired; 'had Smithson tampered with your\ngrandfather's cartridges, for instance?'\n\n'No, he'd not done that; he couldn't ha' done that, but he had tricked\ngrandfeythor a bit, though it wasn't found out till afterwards.\n\n'The way of it was this: Smithson was a d----d clever feller, ye ken,\nan' knowin' as he did that grandfeythor had a wunnerfu' way o' pickin'\noff the pheasants just as they came over the topmost trees, he had\nsent two or three o' his men i' the night-time, an' had fixed up a\nyoung fir right on to the top o' the highest tree, so that Mr.\nPheasant had to rise another six feet afore he cam' ower.\n\n'Well, this was just enough to put grandfeythor oot ov his reckonin's,\nan' when he misses the first one, as he'd never done before, he cannot\nmake it oot, he went clean flustered, thought he must have had a\nstroke, an' swore he was bewitched, or poisoned, or such like.\n\n'It was a crool thing to do, but it wasn't exactly what ye could call\na Jew's swindle--but, damn Smithson aal the same, I says; for here's\nme, Geordie Crozier, left a po'r orphin i' the warld wi' none o' his\nfam'ly property to belang to him, 'cept two gifts--the yen for\ndrinkin' an' t'other for gamblin', an' it's damn Smithson, says I.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[1] Northumberland Plate, or Pitmen's Derby.\n\n[2] 'Mevvies' = maybe, perhaps. The true Northumbrian is in a\nthreefold danger of betraying his origin: phonetically, by the 'burr';\ndialectically, by constant use of 'mevvies,' 'wor' (our), and 'I's\nwarned' (I warrant you); psychologically, by a perpetual readiness to\nback himself, his dog, or any of his belongings, against any other\nman's in the world, and for any amount, at a moment's notice.\n\n[3] Atlas, presumably.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SQUIRE'S LAST RIDE\n\n\n'Ay, that's the priest, the Catholic Priest,' said Eph Milburn, after\na white-haired, cassock-clad old gentleman, who had nodded slightly in\nreply to my companion's greeting, had passed over the bridge and\ndeparted out of hearing.\n\n'He looks as if butter wouldn't melt in his mouth now,' continued\nMilburn, a long-legged, ruddy-bearded, hawk-eyed son of the moorlands,\n'and aal his time nowadays he spends in his garden over his bees or\nhis flowers, or thumbing his Mass-book in his library; but it wasn't\nso once-a-day, not he, not when the old Squire was above ground, and\nhe came up by to stop wiv him.\n\n'Ye'll have heard tell o' the old Squire an' aal his goin's on, I'll\nbe bound? Ay, o' course, but there's one thing nobody kens o', not\neven Father Blenkinsop, and that's where the Squire's bones are lyin',\nfor they never found his body, ye ken.\n\n'Squire Dally was the last o' the fam'ly that had lived in the old\nPele Tower o' Dally from generation to generation, and he was the\nwildest o' a wild lot--riders an' reivers in the old times, canny hard\nfox-hunters, drinkers, an' gam'lers this century. They were bound to\nget through their property soon or late, an' the last Squire, Tom\nDally o' Dally, he says, \"I leave my property tiv a South-countryman?\nNot I, by Gad!\" says he; \"why, damme, but I'll cheat him yet,\" an' sae\nhe spends hissel' right an' left on any mortal thing he took a fancy\nfor.\n\n'The Hall--which was an old Pele wi' two wings added, ye ken--an' a\ngood bit o' the property, had gone before that. The last Squire's\ngrandfeythor had got shot o' that, the mortgages on it bein' far ower\nheavy to keep up; but there was still a fair property left, an' a nice\ncanny house that had once been a dower-house, an' was now a farm, an'\nthat was where Squire Tom lived with his fighting-cocks, an' his\nhounds, an' his hawks an' aal.\n\n'His missus had died early, ye ken, an' that had been the ruin ov him,\nfor she was a clivvor woman, wiv a turn o' management--just what ye\nwould call good hands i' the matter ov a horse; that was her faculty,\nan' she was a bonny-featured woman for-bye.\n\n'Ay, she could manage him fine.\n\n'There was a grand scene, 'twas always said, when he brings her home\nafter their furrin' tower, an' one night, bein' merry wiv his bottle,\nhe forgets hissel', an' swears at her before company. Up she gets\nswiftly, pale, but determined, an' leanin' a wee bit ower the table\nshe speaks straight at him. \"Tom,\" she says, \"you forget yourself; and\nuntil you apologize to me for your rudeness I'll sit no more at table\nwi' ye,\" an' oot she gans frae the dining-room, haughty as the Queen\nin Scripture, leavin' the Squire gapin' an' speechless, never havin'\nbeen treated that fashion before.\n\n'There was two or three other men wiv him dinin' that night, an' on\nthey sat drinkin' steadily, the Squire in a towerin' temper aal the\nwhile, noo damnin' hissel', next cursin' his neighbour, an' backin'\nhis horses, an' hawks, an' hissel', wi' gun an' rod, against anyone,\nor the lot o' them together.\n\n'They tried to soothe him a bit, but the mair they tried the hotter he\ngot, an' had the Pope hissel' been his visitor that night, Squire Tom\nwould have d----d him too, an' been glad o' the opportunity. After a\nbit mair snarling an' sneerin', an' snappin' he sits quiet for a\nwhile, then he glares round at his guest friends, an' he cries:\n\n'\"Ye're nowt better than a lot o' 'momenty morries,'\"--meanin'\nskeletons, ye ken--\"the wife's worth the whole boilin' o' ye, an' I'm\nd----d if I don't apologize,\" an' he glared round to see if anyone\nwould dare laugh at him for't; but no one spoke save a little fam'ly\nlawyer chap, up for the night frae the toon, an' he chirrups up an' he\nsays, \"Qui' right, qui' right,\" he hiccoughs, an' the Squire glares\nright through him as he growls, \"When I ask ye for an opinion I pay ye\nfor't, but if ye advise me unasked again, I'll fling ye oot at\nwindow,\" he says.\n\n'Sae oot he strides into the hall, an' cries up the stairs: \"Nell, my\nlass, Nell, ho-way doon, an' I'll apologize to ye, ay, d----, I will,\"\nan' doon she comes, an' on tiv his knees he gans, an' she holds oot\nher hand, an' the Squire he kisses it like a lover.\n\n'Well, she manages him clivvor, but in her first child-bed she was\ntaken ill, poor lady, an' dies vary shortly, leavin' him wiv a baby\ngirl.\n\n'After that the Squire was never the same man again. He turned\nreckless, for what was the use ov \"a filly\" to him, he says; an'\nhavin' no son an' heir to live an' save for, he sets hissel' to spend\naal he can an' spite his next o' kin--a barrister chap in London toon,\nwhom he hated for bein' no sportsman--\"a priest-faced, pauper chap iv\na black gown an' wig,\" he called him, an' no love was lost between the\npair o' them. He was a good bit older than the Squire, an' had a\nlargish fam'ly, the second son bein' none other than Father\nBlenkinsop--the priest that's just passed us by.\n\n'He was the only one the Squire could take up wi' at aal, an' as a boy\nhe was often there for shootin', an' huntin', an' fishin', though his\nfather liked ill his bein' there, for fear o' his gettin' into bad\nways under the Squire's guidance, who was gettin' wilder an' wilder\nwiv every year that passed. He was just a boy then, was Father\nBlenkinsop, havin' left his schoolin', an' bein' aboot to gan tiv a\ncollege to be turned into a Jesu-yte, an' nowt pleased the Squire\nmair, after a long day's huntin' or hawkin', than to fill the lad up\nwi' liquor an' sneer at religion, an' Mass, an' priests, an' aal.\n\n'\"Chuck it, my boy, chuck it,\" he would say, clappin' him on the\nshoulder, as he passed the bottle about. \"Divv'nt put on the black\npetticoat; ye're ower much ov a man for that. Ye can ride, an' ye can\nshoot, an' ye can look a gal i' the face, an' ye can crack a bottle,\nbut if ye turn priest, ye'll neither be man nor woman, but a ---- bad\nmixture o' both.\"\n\n'So he would talk o' nights, pourin' oot his ribaldries an' drinkin'\ndoon his wine, yet never gettin' fair drunk; for he had a marvellous\nstomach for liquor, had the Squire--no butt o' Malmsey wine could ever\nhave drooned him, I's warn'd--an' the only way he betrayed himself was\nby gettin' a bit hotter i' the face an' fiercer i' his talk.\n\n'Well, one night he vexed his young cousin beyond bearin'--what wi'\nblackguardin' his father an' his mother, an' wi' one thing an'\nanother--an' sudden the boy leaps up--mevvies he was a little above\nhissel' wi' liquor that evenin'--an' he bangs wiv his fist on the\ntable, an' he cries, \"Look here, Cousin Tom, I'll stand it no longer,\nan' to prove I'm no coward, I'll challenge ye to ride to the big Black\nStone on Glowrorum Fell an' back across the Moor this very night.\"\n\n'\"Done wi' ye, lad, done wi' ye!\" shouts the Squire, bangin' wiv his\nfist in his turn, \"an' I'll tell ye what the stakes shall be. If I\nwin, you chuck the Jesu-yte business an' come an' live wi' me, an' if\nyou win, you can take your pick o' the horses i' my stable. Agreed?\"\n\n'\"Ay!\" shouted the boy recklessly; \"done wi' ye.\"\n\n'Fifteen minutes after this the two o' them starts off with a wild\nhallo up the brae side, an' so across the Moor, the Squire \"yoickin'\"\nan' \"tally-hooin'\" as he went.\n\n'The Moor was mevvies aboot two miles across--an' a tarr'ble bad place\nfor hard gallopin', for there was a stone wall or two i' the middle\no't, bogs to the left hand, an' some old workin's--pit-shafts or the\nlike--to the right.\n\n'So right across Towlerhirst Moor they galloped--hell-to-leather--the\nSquire to the right an' the boy to the left.\n\n'Tom Brewis, the old herd up at Windyneuk, happened to be passin'\nalong the sheep-track that leads by the Moor edge that night, an'\nhearin' the sound ov a horse gallopin', an' a lively hollerin' as tho'\nto a pack o' hounds, he comes across a bit to find oot what it might\nbe.\n\n'It was a dampish, daggyish sort o' night, but at times there was a\ndrift o' moonlight, an' in one o' thae glimpses he caught a sight ov a\ndark figure on horseback, aboot two hundred yards from him, tryin' to\njump a big black horse across one o' thae open shafts. \"You won't,\nwon't you? Then d---- ye, ye ---- black de'il, ye shall!\" an' clappin'\nhis spurs deep into his sides, an' layin' his huntin' crop aboot his\nears, he forced him some paces backward an' sent him at it again.\n\n'It was a big black stallion he was ridin'--a fiery-tempered brute, a\nproper match for the Squire--an' up he reared on end, fightin' him,\nshriekin' wi' pain an' rage; but he couldn't get shot ov his rider, so\nwiv a sudden bound he starts forward an' tries to clear the shaft wiv\none great leap.\n\n'Just at that moment the moonlight faded, an' Tom Brewis couldn't tell\nexactly what happened, but he saw a dark mass leapin', he heard a\nrattle o' stones, then a heavy thud deep down somewhere, a sort o'\nsplash, an' aal was still.\n\n'Tom stands there aal a-gliff wi' terror, half dazed, not kennin'\nwhether he can have seen or heard aright; then, pullin' hissel'\ntogether, walks slowly thither to see if any trace can be seen of\nhorse or rider.\n\n'But there wasn't a one--neither o' horse nor Squire--nowt but a\ntramplin' o' horse's hoofs an' a white gash as o' a half horse-shoe on\na big boulder o' rock two feet below the surface t'other side. Sae Tom\ngans slowly back, an' doon to the Squire's house to find if he can\nhear anything ov him doon there; for he half hoped it might be a sort\no' dream after aal.\n\n'Just as he gets to the door a figure comes up the drive leadin' to\nthe house, draggin' a lame horse after him, an' \"Ha ye seen anything\no' the Squire?\" it shouts at him. \"No-o,\" says Tom, startled-like,\n\"that was just what I was comin' to ask for myself;\" an' he peers\nthrough the shadows to see who his questioner could be, an' recognises\nMaster Fred, the Squire's cousin, bleedin' frae a wound i' the head,\nan' leadin' a horse wi' two fearfu' broken knees.\n\n'He win his wager,' concluded my companion slowly, 'but after that\nride he was never the lad he had been before, an' perhaps it's\nscarcely likely that he should be, I'm thinkin'.'\n\n\n\n\n\u00c0 L'OUTRANCE\n\n\nWe were standing on the fencing-room floor--Jake Carruthers and\nI--leaning our backs against the armoury, our foils still in our\nhands, slowly recovering our breath, after a rapier and dagger contest\nwhich had lasted a good half-hour.\n\nHe was much less 'winded' than myself, for all his sixty-five years;\nand as I had positively worn myself out against his iron wrist I was\ndelighted to gain a breathing space, and occupied the time in drawing\nout from my companion some old-time memories of the fencing floor.\n\n'Have you ever seen a duel?' I inquired. 'I don't mean a semi-drunken,\nnose-chopping bout, or a garden-party affair, with coffee and\nliqueurs, as in France, but a genuine \"throat-cutting, blood-letting\"\nmatter, such as Porthos or D'Artagnan would have loved?'\n\n'No,' replied Jake reflectively, drawing the length of his foil\nlovingly along the soft sleeve of his jacket; 'the time's past, I\ndoubt, for that sort of performance. The Divorce Court is what \"my\nlord\" appeals to nowadays for \"satisfaction,\" and Trimmer Joe or\nBricklayer Tom, they just \"bash\" the trespasser upon their family\npreserves on the head, and there's an end on't.\n\n'The cleverest, best-fought fight I ever saw--and I believe there was\na bit something of what you're meanin' in it--was, strange to say,\ntwixt a man and a woman--leastways, a gentleman an' a lady. It was a\nfair battle, proper fightin' on her side; for she was sworn to win,\nand sair wishful to punish him, I's warn'd; and he, though he was\ntarr'ble keen to win too, found it took him all his time to keep her\nfrom letting daylight into him--an', by the way, this is the varra\ntale ye used always to be askin' for, an' I'll tell it ye noo, for\nye've improved i' your fencin', I'm thinkin', since ye began. You'll\nhave heard tell of Squire Dennington of Dennington Hall? A great rider\nhe was once, and a sportsman generally--\"Jockey Jack\" his own private\nfriends called him, and his horse, \"Pit Laddie\"--ye'll heard of\nhim?--won the \"Plate\" some thirty years back.\n\n'Well, his lady, Mrs. Dennington, was just the proudest woman in the\nwhole county of Northumberland--scarcely what ye would call \"bonny,\"\nbut just tarr'ble handsome, and the Squire, he fair worships her. He\nhad married her in Berlin, and there was some queer odds an' ends o'\nstories about her, but he'd never have hearkened to them any more than\nhe would listen to anyone shoutin' to him the way to go out hunting.\n\n'He was in the army at that time, ye ken--the Northumberland\nFusiliers, \"The Old and Bold,\" with \"Where the Fates calls ye\" in\nLatin for their motto--and I was his man-servant, joining the army\nalong of him, as my forbears had often done with his forbears\nbeforetime.\n\n'The Squire had to go out to Berlin with his mother, and he gets leave\nfor me to accompany him, and there it was that he met with his lady\nthat was to be--Miss Maxwell as she was then.\n\n'She was the handsomest woman in Berlin, 'twas said, but quite poor,\nliving as a companion with the wife of one of the Ambassador's party,\nbeing a kind of cousin, and many were the stories about her.\n\n'Gossip said that one of them grand dukes with a name a yard long had\nwanted her for his mistress, but when he made his proposition he got\nsuch an answer that he never dared speak to her again. Then it was\nreported that she was engaged to the Ambassador's chief secretary,\nOxencourt his name was--Sir Henry Oxencourt as he is now--and that she\nhad even run away with him, but that at the last moment he turned\nround and said that he couldn't afford to marry her till his father\ndied, so there and then she leaves him, walks the night through till\nshe can get a conveyance, and arrives just in time to stay the mouth\nof scandal from ruining her reputation.\n\n'Well, the Squire meets her, falls desperately into love--for he cares\nnothing for gossips--and in three weeks' time she accepts him for good\nand all.\n\n'They marries at once, and travel for a year or more, and finally\nsettle down at Dennington Hall.\n\n'The Squire after a bit sends for me, buys my discharge, makes me his\nbody-servant, and sets up the old banqueting-room as a fencing\nhall--for he was always tarr'ble keen at fencing, boxing,\nsingle-stick, and all manly sports--and it was part of my duty to give\nthem both a turn of fencing most mornings of the week.\n\n'Well, one winter, after about three years of marriage, the Squire\ngoes off to Algeria to shoot gazelle, leaving Mrs. Dennington and his\nsister behind at the Hall, and he hadn't been gone more than a week\nbefore Sir Henry Oxencourt turns up at the Hall.\n\n'Well, when I see him there, I was fair dismayed, for I kenned nicely\nthere was but one thing he could be wantin', for his repute in the\nmatter of women was notorious. Forbye that ancient gossip at Berlin\nhad always reported that he had been mad at missing his chance with\nher, and had sworn he would win her back again--get her a divorce and\nmarry her himself at the finish.\n\n'His father had died since then, and he was now a rich man, and as\nhandsome and masterful a man as ever I saw in my life.\n\n'Well, he comes and he courts her the live-long day, quiet-like and\nrespectful, but never missing an opportunity, and she seems to enjoy\nhis company. They go out hunting together; she dares him to jump this\nand he dares her to jump that, and so the play goes on, and all the\nwhile I was fearing he was getting a fast hold upon her, for she liked\npower and was tarr'ble ambitious, and Sir Henry, they said, might have\nbeen one of the cleverest diplomatists in the world if he could but\nhave kept clear of women.\n\n'It was easy to see that he was just mad keen for her, but I was not\nso sure after a bit that she was so keen for him. It seemed to me she\nwas leading him on, and leading him on, but with what purpose I\ncouldn't guess.\n\n'Well, one afternoon she comes to me and she says, off-hand like, \"Sir\nHenry Oxencourt would like to show me some new tricks of fence he has\nlearnt abroad; kindly see that the fencing-room is in order to-night,\nand, by the way, I want to show him the pair of duelling rapiers, with\nthe silver foxes on the hilts, that Mr. Dennington is so fond of.\"\n\n'Well, all afternoon I wondered what it meant; for though her manner\nwas cool enough, there was something curious about my mistress's\nexpression as she gave her orders.\n\n'\"If possible,\" I thinks to myself, \"I'll have a peep also at Sir\nHenry's tricks to-night,\" and as I polished up the rapiers that\nafternoon I thought of the story the Squire used to tell of them. One\nof them had a stain on the \"foible\" which would not come out for any\nquantity of rubbing--it was the blood, the Squire said, of a certain\n\"Black Rutherford,\" who had made love to the then Lady Dennington when\nher Knight was away fighting for King Charlie. Sir John comes back,\nhaving heard about it, but says nothing, and asks him to dinner; they\nhave a game of cards after; Sir John accuses him of cheating, and\nthere and then in the banqueting-hall they have a set-to with their\nrapiers before my lady's eyes; in five minutes Sir John disarms him,\nand before the rapier touches the floor, runs him clean through the\nright lung and out below the shoulder-blade.\n\n'Well, after taking in coffee that evening, I went to the\nfencing-room, and on the pretence of looking after the fire, mending\njackets, straightening masks, and so forth, stayed on there till about\nten o'clock, when in comes Mrs. Dennington, followed by Sir Henry.\n\n'She gives a sort of start when she sees me, then she says curtly,\n\"You needn't stay, Carruthers,\" and walks past me into the middle of\nthe room.\n\n'Well, I felt bound to see that fencing, whatever it might be, and the\nonly way I could manage it was to go round and up to the old\nmusicians' gallery at the southern end. If I could open the door\nwithout attracting notice, I might then lie down at full length and\nsee pretty well what was going on below.\n\n'It took me the best part of five minutes to open the door and squeeze\nthrough, and when I had crawled to the ledge and looked over, the two\ncombatants were just about to begin.\n\n'\"Put the letters on the mantelpiece,\" I could hear her say with a\ncuriously strung tone to her voice, and Sir Henry bowed in a mocking\nsort of way. Then he says slowly, after having walked to the\nchimney-piece and placed a packet on the shelf: \"But it is not quite\nfair, of course, for you cannot see your stakes, whereas I--I have\nmine before my eyes at the end of my blade--the most beautiful stakes\nin Europe,\" and he bowed again to Madame with an air of gallantry and\npassion and arrogance all in one.\n\n'For reply the mistress only gave a quick nod with her head, nervous,\nimpatient, like a racehorse that must be away.\n\n'I daren't do more than peep over now and again, for the lights were\nbright below, and I was afraid of being caught; but I could see that\nshe was in a state of great excitement, while he was cool in\ncomparison with her, and wore a proud, triumphing sort of air, as of\none who knows full well he has the victory in his grasp.\n\n'They walk to the centre of the hall and take their stands. They \"take\nlength,\" and then salute--she, swiftly, nervously, he in a foreign,\nbravado sort of fashion.\n\n'\"First blood,\" says Sir Henry, \"and the stakes are won,\" saluting\nonce again in a vainglorious way he had.\n\n'\"Yes, but not for a scratch,\" replies my lady swiftly. Then they\ncross rapiers, and the play begins.\n\n'My sangs! but it wasn't a play at all, it was a reg'ler battle, a\nfair duello, and it was all Sir Henry could do to hold his own. They\nhad engaged in \"quatre,\" and no sooner had blades touched than she\ndisengages and feints in \"tierce\"; then, with an amazing swiftness,\nshe disengages again, and lunges full at him in \"sixte\"; carelessly he\nparries with \"sixte,\" and in a flash she disengages again, \"beats\" his\nblade downwards, and, for all but a biscuit, has him disarmed. He\nloses hold of his weapon, his fingers slipping from the quillons, but\ncatches it in mid-air before it drops, leaps back a yard, parrying\nanother lunge clever with his left hand as he does so.\n\n'\"'Tis a dirty Italian trick ye have learnt! they haven't improved ye\nabroad!\" my lady sneers at him.\n\n'Now, had she been but one flash of an eye quicker with her lunge\nafter the \"beat,\" she'd have had him in \"quatre\" nicely, but she\nhadn't thought she could disarm him so easy, and she just missed her\nchance. Sir Henry, though, had had his lesson; he drops his careless,\ntempting manner, such as a professor tries a beginner with, and fights\ncooler and more careful, chucking his bravado airs, for it's dead in\nearnest she is, and no mere stage-play for the gallery.\n\n'On she comes again like a tigress, evidently trying to \"rush\" him,\nand back and back she presses him till the pair o' them's right under\nthe gallery where I was lying. I had my head right through the bars by\nthat time, I was so keen to see the fight, and it was only by stuffing\nmy handkerchief into my mouth that I could stop myself from shouting\nadvice and encouragement to her, she fought so desperate keen and with\nsuch a wild-cat pluck.\n\n'It wasn't exactly scientific, her fencing, it was too rash and\nall-for-victory straight away, but it was grand to see her flashing\nher rapier in and out, flickering like a serpent's tongue, and all the\nwhile her graceful limbs moved softly, swiftly, like a panther's,\nbeneath her silken evening dress.\n\n'Once Sir Henry's foot slipped, and in she comes like a knife, and he\nonly escapes by adopting another Italian trick--that of dropping with\nthe left hand to the floor. She still presses him harder than ever,\nand I could hear her breathing hotly, \"heck, heck,\" like an angered\nhawk. Then swift he \"binds\" with her, but he does it over-viciously\nand pays for it, for she's agile as a cat, and freeing herself with a\nleap backward, suddenly with a lightning-like \"cut-over\" touches him\non the sword arm, and though he wouldn't acknowledge it, I knew she'd\npricked him, and I could tell that it had roused him to anger in his\nturn. \"You she-devil!\" I heard him hiss between his teeth, and now he\nturned to the offensive himself.\n\n'He was at a disadvantage, though, for he didn't want to hurt her\nbadly, being a woman, so he tries to disarm her, and give her some\nslight wound on the sword arm, or high in \"quatre\" or \"tierce.\"\n\n'That was no good, as I could have told him nicely, for she had the\nstrongest and supplest wrist of any woman ever I saw, and forbye that,\ndisarming can only be done by taking your opponent unawares, and she\nkenned nicely what he was after.\n\n'Then sudden he gies it up, seeing the uselessness o't, and tries a\nbrute strength game, waits his chance till he can lift up her blade,\nand then thrusts sideways so as to pink her high in the shoulder, but\nshe twists aside and it only just touches her through the sleeve.\n\"First blood!\" he shouts triumphantly, \"the stakes are mine,\" with a\nlow bow and a sweep o' the sword arm. \"Phit!\" she cries passionately;\n\"it's only a scratch,\" and she comes again at him with a bound.\n\n'Then he loses his temper a bit, I think, for his own sword arm was\nbleeding, as I knew well, for I saw a drop or two of blood on the\nfloor and his hand was crimson forbye. So he comes to meet her,\nquickly driving her back in turn, plying his rapier this way and that\nfiercely, just missing her by a hair's breadth to frighten her, till\nhe could have her at his mercy, and then he tries a \"cut-over\" in\n\"tierce,\" swift as a meteor, pressing his \"fort\" strongly against her\n\"foible,\" and would have been home sure as fate had not his foot\nslipped on a drop of blood on the floor. Up flies his rapier idly--she\nwith a sudden flip tosses it higher still, and with a leap, by Gox!\nshe ran him through in \"seconde\"--just above his right hip.\n\n'\"Hurroo!\" shouts I, through my handkerchief and all. \"Clever,\nclever!\" for it was splendidly done--scientific, exact, just\nperfection.\n\n'There Sir Henry lay in a swoon upon the floor, for no doubt the pain\nand the shock together would be immense, while my mistress, she just\ntakes one look at him, then wipes her rapier swift upon her\nhandkerchief, takes up Sir Henry's also, and places them against the\nrack in the armoury, takes down two foils, throws one on the floor,\nbreaks the other in two and flings the pieces down beside its fellow.\nThen swift as ever she goes to the mantelpiece, takes up the bundle of\nletters and chucks them into the fire.\n\n'She watches them burn for a moment, then presses the electric bell\nclose by, and just as John the footman walks in at the door Sir Henry\ncomes to himself, and lifts himself up on to his elbow off the floor.\n\n'\"Help Sir Henry Oxencourt up to his room,\" says she, cool as a\ncucumber, \"and tell Carruthers to attend to him, and to send for the\ndoctor, if necessary. A foil broke as we fenced, and Sir Henry, I\nfear, has suffered through the accident.\"\n\n'John stares with an open mouth, but a peremptory \"Don't you\nunderstand?\" from his mistress wakes him up, and he goes and helps Sir\nHenry up, who therewith slowly rises, and, resting one hand on John's\nshoulder, without one word limps away.\n\n'The door shuts, and Mistress Dennington turns slowly to the fire, her\neyes glued to them letters burning blackly amongst the coals. As she\nwatches she takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelshelf, lights\nit, and I heard her say to herself, \"You fool!\" then she smokes a puff\nor two and again she says, \"You fool!\" and therewith taps her foot\nsmartly on the floor.'\n\n'But what do you think she meant by \"fool\"?' I here interrupted.\n\n'Well,' replied Jake slowly, 'I've often asked myself that very\nquestion, and what I believe she meant was something o' this sort:\n\"Fool not to take your chance--and such a chance!--when you had it,\nand Fool again, for not knowing me better than to think that of me\nwhen 'twas too late.\"'\n\n'And now one more question,' I said, for Jake was preluding with his\nweapon once again, evidently anxious to commence another bout. 'Did\nyou ever tell the Squire?'\n\n'No, not exactly,' replied he, 'but I gave him a hint, and bank-notes\nwouldn't have bought that rapier after that, and there it still hangs\nin Dennington Hall in the armoury, I believe, though I haven't been\nthere since the Squire died and I set up as a Ma\u00eetre d'Armes in\nOldcastle here. The mistress, though, she's still alive, but she never\ncared for Northumberland--\"so dull,\" says she, and goes and diverts\nherself in London town. And now no more talk. Gardez-vous, M'sieur--en\ngarde, s'il vous pla\u00eet,' and with a smile he struck my foil upon the\nfloor.\n\n\n\n\n'T'OWD SQUIRE'\n\n\n'No, I never saw him, not the old Squire--\"t'owd Squire,\" as they\ncalled him; but grandfather, he was thick with him, bein' the oldest\nfarmer in the dale an' pretty nigh a gentleman hisself in those days;\nhe was master of the 'ounds, d'ye see, when they was a trencher-fed\npack--that was before Squire Heron took them over to t' new kennels at\nThe Ford.\n\n'Well, I done some pretty fair jumps myself at one time an' another in\nt' ring or steeple-chasin', but 'twas nowt to what he done, not even\nwhen a mare I was ridin' jumped over a wall an' fifteen feet into t'\nquarry t' other side.\n\n'There's a pretty tidy place at t' bottom o' that field'--pointing to\na low-lying, marshy expanse on the left that rose at the end to a high\nbank--'that he jumped one afternoon in cold blood which five out of\nsix wouldn't have touched in warm, but at t' end of his time he was\nreckless--almost to touch on madness, so grandfather always said. But\nif ye'll bide here three minutes till I've seen the mare looked to\nproperly I'll tell ye a tale of t' Squire--same as grandfather told it\nme.'\n\nSo saying Jack Skelton cantered round to the farm, where he was now\nemployed as horse-breaker and showyard rider, while I strolled down to\nview the leap at the end of the field till he was free to join me. I\ncould see The Ford opposite to me as I walked along--a square keep\nflanked with castellated wings rising proudly amongst its trees beyond\nthe winding river in a circle of fir-clad hills.\n\n'The old Squire's' daughter lived there now with her husband, who had\ntaken her name on his marriage, but they were childless, and the\nancient race of Herons seemed destined to become extinct.\n\nArrived at the bank I saw a formidable gulf open below me, with a soft\nand rotten landing on the further side, some fourteen feet across, the\nspace between oozy with marsh mud and choked drains. '\"All hope\nabandon ye who enter here,\"' I quoted aloud, just as Jack Skelton came\nup to me.\n\n'Ay,' he chuckled, 'it would be a job for a contractor to get a horse\nan' man out o' that, an' after that I'll lay odds but the laundry-maid\nwould give her notice.\n\n'It was a great big, seventeen hands horse he had that he jumped it\nwith--an ugly devil to look at, light roan in colour, but up to any\nweight an' absolutely fearless. All ye had to do, as grandfather used\nto say, was to lay t' reins on his neck, and straight across country\nhe'd go like a bird.\n\n'He hadn't always been such a fierce one to go, hadn't t' Squire, and\nwhat changed his temper was what I was goin' to tell ye.\n\n'There was a woman in it, d'ye see, an' that woman his wife. When\nfirst they was married no couple in broad Yorkshire was happier, as\nfolk thought. She was a handsome lass and clever at book-larnin' an'\nsuchlike, ambitious, too, like the clever ones usually are; but at\nfirst she was all for sport an' huntin', same as t'owd Squire, and\nwhere he went she mostly followed him, bein' as well mounted as\nhimself. As for t'owd Squire, he was t' happiest man alive in those\ndays--used to slap grandfather on t' back an' cry, after a steaming\nrun, t' fox's mask in his hand ready to tie on to his missus's saddle,\n\"By ----, Skelton, but she's the straightest woman rider in England,\nwhether in or out o' t' shires.\"\n\n'Yet for all that his happiness was short-lived, for after a son was\nborn to him Mistress Heron seemed to lose heart for huntin'--her\nnarves, she said, had gone wrong with her; but grandfather always\nupheld that she'd grown tired of her husband. She was a clever woman,\nas I said, an' ambitious; an' 'twas reported that she'd been forced to\nmarry wi' t'owd Squire by her mother in Lunnon town--he bein' as rich\nas \"Creases\"--whilst the man she really favoured hadn't a penny beyond\nwhat his wits might bring him in. For a bit the excitement of huntin'\nhad been enough for her, an' spendin' t' Squire's brass, t' big house,\nan' t' novelty; but after t' son was born she grew dissatisfied an'\ntook a dislike to her life. Consequence was that she took up with a\nyoung man called Cunliffe, that lived over at The Tower--right away on\nthat hillside over there, about two miles west of us--ye can see it\nagainst trees from Heronsford easy.\n\n'The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at\nIronopolis, an' he'd just got himself elected into Parliament, an' was\nlike to get on at it, 'twas said, bein' one of them ready-witted,\noily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t'\nroads an' sneak through gates, an' then swagger on at t' kill. Ay,\nthere's none \"who-oops\" an' \"tally-hos\" louder than them.\n\n'T'owd Squire, on t'other hand, was one of t' owd-fashioned sort, and\nsaid what he meant always, an' clapped an oath on t' back of it; hated\nLunnon, an' Lunnon ways, lived for huntin' an' shootin' an' country\npursuits, an' drank a bottle of port wine reg'lar every evenin' to his\nown cheek. He wasn't over well educated neither, havin' all his life\nlived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin' a vast knowledge of\nthe stud-book, farriery, an' horse-breedin', which was a sort o'\nlarnin' that Mistress Heron didn't care a button about. Well, things\nwent gradually askew between the two, she always wantin' fresh company\nin t' house, an' him hatin' society ways like poison.\n\n'Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o' Parliament,\nCunliffe, an' often he would be over an' dinin' with them; he could\nsing a bit, an' she was fond of t' piano, an' they would play on\ntogether in t' drawing-room while t' Squire sat over his mahog'ny\npassin' t' bottle round, talkin' over t' 'untin', layin' wagers with\nhis own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted,\nrough-tongued, fox-'untin' Yorkshire style.\n\n'Well, t'owd Squire couldn't stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the\nfirst place he was a poor rider to 'ounds, never jumped owt if he\ncould help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an' had a supercilious\nway o' talk about him that angered t' Squire fearful. Add to this that\nhe was always comin' over to sweetheart his missus, an' you can\nimagine how ill the two men would agree.\n\n'Well, one night they was sitting playin' cards after dinner, an'\nMistress Heron was lookin' on at them. T' Squire was nowt of a\nscholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an' loved\nto take t' shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin', but was\ngenerally the one who had to pay up.\n\n'It was a game they call Pickit they were playin'; grandfather told\nme--for in after days t' Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to\nmy grandfather, havin' been playmates together, an' grandfather bein'\na god-child o' t'owd Squire's father beside that--an' Cunliffe bein'\nflustered had forgot when it came to t' last two cards--there bein' a\nticklish bit at stake--what had been played previously.\n\n'He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress\nHeron's eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon\nt' right card an' wins.\n\n'T'owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look\nround under his eyelids at his wife standin' there above him, an' says\nsoftly, \"Ye've a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe,\" says he, at which\nthe other gets very red, an' begins to talk of getting home.\n\n'\"Mistress Heron and I,\" says t' Squire, \"were talking on this\nafternoon about t' private steeplechase we're going to hold shortly in\nt' Park here, an' she was all for layin' out t' course for first two\nmiles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. 'It will just\ntake inside of ten minutes from t' Ford,' says she, 'to Towers turn,\nand beautiful going all the way over grass with t' big jump an' t'\nblack beck in t' middle of it.' 'Ay,' says I, 'and that will stop one\nor two that I know of--I'll lay a monkey.' 'Not a bit of it,' says\nshe, 'not a bit; an' I'll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.'\n\n'\"Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her\nnominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a\npreliminary trial, an' as t' night is bright as day wi' moonlight,\nperhaps ye'd like a ride home to-night across country, an' I'll lay ye\ndouble of what ye've won to-night that ye don't get to your own\ngate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t' Ford's paddock. An' ye can\nhave your pick o' what's in my stable,\" adds t' Squire, as he looks\nfrom one to t' other of them, \"while Mistress Heron an' I will watch\nye from t' battlements an' take time for ye; or, of course, if ye're\nafraid,\" he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an' hawing, says something\nabout \"not likin' to take a horse out at that time o' night,\" an'\ndwells heavy on the words, \"we can send ye home in the landau, like a\nlady,\" says t' Squire.\n\n'\"If Mr. Cunliffe accepts your proposal to ride a horse for me in the\nsteeplechase,\" interrupts Mistress Heron scornfully, \"that is of\nitself sufficient to falsify your insinuation.\"\n\n'\"I shall be only too proud,\" cries Cunliffe at once, with a bow, \"to\nride for Mistress Heron.\"\n\n'\"Ay,\" says t' Squire, \"an' t' night before a message will doubtless\ncome to say that Mr. Cunliffe has suddenly been called away on\nimportant political business, an' he's much grieved to forego a\npleasure he had been so much looking forward to.\"\n\n'\"You've said quite enough, sir,\" cries Cunliffe, red an' passionate;\n\"kindly have your horse saddled--t' light-roan one for choice; for I\ntake your wager an' will ride your horse home this night.\"\n\n'T' Squire goes out to t' stable himself, gives his orders, an' in\nfifteen minutes' time t' horse is round at t' door.\n\n'\"Ye'll be wantin' a switch likely,\" says t' Squire, as he shows him\ndownstairs, \"an' if ye'll come into t' gun-room here, ye can take your\npick o' crops, or cuttin' whips, or what ye will.\"\n\n'T' room was dark, an' Cunliffe, he bumps up against a small pail o'\nsomething an' upsets it on his trousers and all over t' floor before\nt' Squire gets a candle lighted.\n\n'\"Never mind, never mind that,\" says t' Squire cheerily, \"it's just\nnowt to matter; it's just for to try my hounds with to-morrow, an'\nshouldn't have been there. See, there's t' whip-stand; take your\nchoice,\" says he.\n\n'Cunliffe, he takes a cuttin' whip, an' jumps on t' horse without more\nado, an' goes out into t' paddock with t' stud groom, who is to show\nhim where to start from when t' Squire shouts \"off\" from the roof of\nthe house.\n\n'A minute or two later t' Squire shows himself on t' battlements, and\nMistress Heron's there too, to see the sport.\n\n'\"Are ye ready?\" rings out t' Squire's voice.\n\n'\"Yes,\" comes back t' answer.\n\n'\"Then off!\" he shouts down and drops t' handkerchief.\n\n'Away he goes at a full gallop straight across t' wide-spreading west\npark-land, then draws rein a moment as he approaches t' haha with a\ndrop of five feet or so, perhaps. Just as he pulls up there comes a\nfaint \"you-yowin',\" as of hounds upon a scent, from around t' corner\nof t' house.\n\n'\"Whatever's that?\" cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the\nsound of it.\n\n'\"Why, it's t' hounds,\" cries t' Squire, with a stabbing laugh. \"I\nthowt it might help him t' jump t' black beck an' win his wager to\nhave t' hounds after him, an' so it will, for there's a bit aniseed\nsprinkled on Gamecock's fetlock bandages, an' Cunliffe's stepped into\nsome himself.\"\n\n'\"'Tis the deed of a savage!\" says my lady, and with a proud contempt\nof him she steps away from his side as far as t' battlements will\npermit.\n\n'Away go t' hounds wi' riotous music hot upon t' scent; on, forrard on\nthey go, right over t' haha and up and across t' pasture beyond, at t'\nend of which, and beside t' beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an' down\ntrying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn't, in his\nexcitement, taken notice of t' hounds giving tongue, or looked behind\nhim, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse\nstockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what's\nup, and he forces back t' horse some twenty yards or so--first hounds\nracing towards him about hundred yards behind--rams in t' spurs, cuts\nhim with t' whip, and claps him at it. Gamecock tries it bravely, and\nleaping high into the air just lands on t' further bank, but short a\nbit, and on t' soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending\nCunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit.\n\n'\"T' bet's won!\" shouts the Squire, marking t' horse pick himself up\nbefore his rider and gallop away by himself over t' far field; \"t'\ndamned cockney cannot ride at all.\"\n\n'\"Yes, you've won your bet,\" replies my lady, gathering her skirts\ntogether and holding them close as she passes him by, \"but possibly\nyou may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman,\" and\nwith that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t' stairs.\n\n'Well, t' hounds couldn't get across t' beck, and t' Squire's first\nwhip was ready wi' t' horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was\nsafe enough, but sorely damaged an' bruised, an' 'twas a full week\nbefore he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign\ntravel.\n\n'Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t' Squire and\nMistress Heron after that night's play; she used to lament for Lunnon\nan' its fashions, an' on t' last night of all she set t'owd Squire's\nblood blazin' by sneerin' at \"country yokels\" and their drunken ways.\n\n'\"Why, damn t' ----!\" cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a\nword more suitable to t' kennels than t' drawing-room, \"ain't we been\nhere since King Alfred? An' what can ye want more than that?\"\n\n'Swift as fire she answers him, \"One might wish that they were\ngentlemen,\" says she, an' cold an' contemptuous she walks past him out\nof the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her\nmaid to pack up for her at once, an' 'tis but an hour later when she\ndrives away in t' carriage an' never sees t'owd place again.\n\n'Well, they separate by law, an' shortly after, when t' bairn comes to\nlive with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of\nthose father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.\n\n'Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a\nsisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good\nSamaritan sort of deeds.\n\n'Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn\nto do better than anybody else. \"Fox-'untin' she learnt clever in six\nmonths' time, an' if ye can larn that ye can larn owt,\" says he.\n\n'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before;\nan' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor\nstagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than\never he had been before.\n\n'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he\nwas a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's\npride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was\nsent to t' Indies.\n\n'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when\nnews came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died\nsuddenly in her retreat or convent.\n\n'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief\nmourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white\ndresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside,\nan' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat,\nwith a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward\nan' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes.\n\n'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. \"Mesdames,\"\nsays he, \"I was her unworthy husband,\" and he doffs his hat as he\nspeaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her\ngrave.\n\n''Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his\nwedding-day.\n\n'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin'\nwith t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season.\n\n'\"Here's to fox-huntin'!\" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a\nbit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, \"And here's to\na saint in heaven!\" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear\ntricklin' on his cheek.\n\n'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had\ncompleted it: \"And she was right, by G----!\" cries t' Squire at the\nend of it, \"as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then;\nand now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven.\"\n\n'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather\nsaid it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd\nSquire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride\nfor a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'.\n\n'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did\nthat day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over\nsome timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse\non top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.\n\n'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he\nnever got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was\nout; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he\nbelieved she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for\ncertain.'\n\n\n\n\nAN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE\n\n\n'Tell me about that mysterious affair of \"Tom the Scholar,\" and Jack\nJefferson's sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion\nhad given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have\nbeen at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department.\nTell me,' I said again, 'how you came to play the part of amateur\ndetective.'\n\n'There was nowt o' the ammytoor aboot it,' retorted 'the Heckler' with\naggressive dignity, 'it was a proper perfessional bit o' wark, an' the\npollis was fine put oot that they hadn't had a hand in it. Wey, there\nwas Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an' he says, \"If ye had only\ntell't me about it I could hev made a job on 't,\" says he, \"'stead o'\nlettin' him gan an' commit a fellor, d' y' see?\"\n\n'\"No,\" says I, \"I divvn't see; it was him that done it, an' it was us\nas copped him, an' if I hadn't taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would\nhave still been usin' long words an' followin' up yor clue like an aad\nblind man followin' efter his dog,\" says I, \"for I've no sort o'\nnotion o' the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye\nhev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an' then at the finish\ngan an' do it yorsel'.\"\n\n'No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call \"accessories\nefter the fac'\"--meanin' they comes up ti ye when aal's ower an' done\nwi', like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin' a prize.\n\n'Well, as I was sayin', I copped \"Tom the Scholar\" aal maa lane, an' I\ndoot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him\na while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o' the sort\nthat has a bit grudge against everythin', an' vicious same as horses\nis sometimes, unforgettin', unforgivin'--just a nasty disagreeable\nbeggor, ye ken.\n\n'He was a scholar, though--\"Tom the Scholar\" they called him--an' was\naye busy wi' books, nivvor had his head oot o' them, whether at the\nInstitute or at aad Mistress Swan's, where he lodged.\n\n'Efter a bit he takes up wi' courtin' Mary Straughan, her who got\nmarried on Jack Jefferson, an' I b'lieve she had a mind for him once,\nbut not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an' a\npassionate way o' talk he had, an' she gave up walkin' wiv him an'\ntook up wi' Jack instead--a south-country chap that had come frae\nYorkshire--a big, burly, thick-headed sort o' chap, but tarr'ble\ngood-natured.\n\n'Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an' just before they gets\n\"called\" i' church he tarrifies Mary wi' vague threats as ti what'll\nhappen if she dares ti wed wi' Jack. Noo, Tom was a \"spirritualist,\"\nye ken, as weel as a scholar, an' he swears that the spirits forbade\nthe match, an' would be properly savage if they was disobliged.\n\n'She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an' she tell't Jack ov't, an'\nJack, he says, iv his queer clipp't Yorkshire way o' talk, \"T'\nspirrits be d----d!\" says he; \"an' if that softy Tom comes interferin'\n'twixt thoo an' me, I'll make him softier than ever,\" he says, shakin'\na great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock's head.\n\n'Well, they gets theirsel's married wivoot askin' leave either o' the\n\"spirrits\" or o' Tom, an' as nowt happened, an' Jack forbye was\ntarr'ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary\nbegan ti laugh at the idea o' Tom an' his \"spirrits\" an' aal.\n\n'They was tarr'ble happy those two, an' I mind well hoo proud and\ntriumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early\nsummer mornin' as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only\na hewer then, same as himsel', an' not what I is now--checkweighman,\nan' half ov a magistrate as well, bein' vice-chairman o' wor lokil\nDistrict Council[6]--an' he cries, \"Geordie,\" he says, \"Geordie, man,\nI's that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There's nowt I couldn't\ndo. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two;\nI could lepp ower a hoos, I's that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob\nAitchison, t' sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an' lay t' fortnight's\nwages that I'd best him too. I could sing, I b'lieve,\" he says, an'\nwiv a solemn voice on him he adds: \"Ay, an' I could even put up a bit\nprayer--though I's not much ov a Churchman--almost as weel as t'\npriest himself. An' I'll tell thoo why. It's because Mary tells me\nthat there's likely gawin' to be an addition to the fam'ly party\nsometime shortly. She's a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an' I'll\nlay it's twins.\" \"I'll gie ye the best o' luck,\" says I, \"but twins is\ntarr'ble expensive, for I've tried 'em,\" says I. \"Man alive!\" cries\nhe, holdin' up his arm--a proper colossyum ov a limb--\"look at that.\nIf that cannot win bread for a dozen o' twins, then a lighted candle\ncannot fire gas,\" says he.\n\n'He was a fine brave man,' continued 'the Heckler' slowly, 'an' I can\nsee him still standin' on the heapstead, an' I mind hoo pleased he was\nthat he could hear a lark singin' high i' the air ower heid just as\nthe sun peeped up before we went doon i' the cage that mornin' for the\nlast time together--just as full o' life an' vigour he was as thoo is\nnoo--but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i' this\nworld.\n\n'It was the vary next mornin' that he was killed, but I wasn't doon\nthe pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before\nthrough a shot that went wrang on us, an' I was laid up i' bed for a\nweek wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,' and he pointed\nto some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the\ngunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.\n\n'Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway\ngalloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry,\nye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin' been born iv\nan ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti\nripen, through his mother's gettin' a gliff at an accident that had\nhappened her man doon the pit.\n\n'Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an' he an' the galloway was\ncomin' doon an incline wiv a full tub, an' the galloway, hevin'\nbolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an' came blindly tearin' along\nthis side an' that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner.\nHe was fearfu' knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his\nhead bashed in bi the tub's wheels, an' there he lay, dead as mutton.\n\n'The crowner comes doon an' sits on the body, an' the jury bring it in\n\"Death by mis'dventure\" slap off, bein' iv a hurry likelies ti get oot\nfor their dinners, an' there the whole thing would have ended wiv a\nburyin' an' a gettin' up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus\nan' the bairn; ay, that's hoo it would have ended up had it not been\nfor \"the Heckler.\"\n\n'I wasn't allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it\noot aal maa lane--mevvies havin' my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit;\nanyways, I lay there quiet i' bed an' found I could think it aal oot\nlike Gladstone; ay, an' I tell thoo that Gladstone an' Horbert Spencor\ntogether cudn't have thought harder than I did at that period o' time,\nnor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a\nbit brag, mevvies, but it isn't, by Gox! it's just the naked truth.\n\n'Well, there I lay between the sheets wi' my \"linin's\" on, detarmined\nthat if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us\nfrae findin' it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask\nHarry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it\nhappened.\n\n'Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi' tea, an' spice loaf, an'\njam an' aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an' then I axes him a\nfew supernumerary questions.\n\n'\"Thoo'll ken 'Tom the scholar?'\" I axes him--\"him that's a stoneman\ndoon the pit, an' gans in for spiritualism an' sich like for his hobby\nan' pastime?\" \"Ay,\" he says, \"I ken him nicely. Wey, I been at some ov\nhis 'seeantics,' or whativvor it is he calls them, an' I have the\nmakin' ov a fine 'meejum,'\" he says, \"for I can parsonate folks ov aal\nkinds, males an' females, wivoot any distinction o' sexes.\"\n\n'\"Ay!\" says I, interruptin' him wiv a sort ov admirin' surprise i' my\ntone o' voice, \"can thoo, noo? Wey, thoo's a clivvor one, that's what\nthoo is.\"\n\n'\"Ay,\" says he, quite enlarged at the thought, \"an' there's some folk\nsays that I isn't quite right i' the head, but they couldn't parsonate\nAlexander the Great--him that the sword-dancers sing aboot--like as I\ncan. Could they, noo?\"\n\n'\"No,\" says I, \"not they. They're not scholars enough for that, an'\nmevvies they would be gliffed at it as weel. Dis thoo nivvor get a\ngliff at the spirits?\" I axes, careless like.\n\n'\"Not while I's parsonating, I divvn't, but whiles when I's doon the\npit I gets a gliff,\" says he; \"it's sae dark an' lonesome i' places.\"\n\n'\"Dis Tom ivvor try to make thoo parsonate doon i' the pit?\" I axes\nhim, \"for Tom, bein' stoneman, 'll come across thoo at times drivin'\nyor galloway.\"\n\n'\"Ay, I've seen him doon below,\" he says, \"though he nivvor talked on\naboot parsonating, but usuallies passes us by wivoot sayin' nowt, for\nTom's a vary distant sort o' chap, thoo knaas.\"\n\n'\"But sometimes mevvies he would speak wi' thoo when he passed thoo,\nan' other folks wasn't aboot? Did he ivvor talk on aboot the spirits\nti thoo at all? That day the galloway ran away, did he speak wi' thoo\nthat mornin'? Mevvies he did, laddie, an' mevvies he told thoo not ti\nspeak aboot it lest the spirits wouldn't like it, or some such kind ov\nargument,\" says I, insinuatin' it tiv him like one o' thae lawyer\nchaps iv a wig.\n\n'\"Ay, he spoke tiv us that mornin', sure enough, sayin' as hoo he\nthought the spirits was vexed, for he had heard them callin' i' the\npit itself through the darkness, an' he wanted ti knaa whether I had\nheard the voices same as himself or not. Well, I hadn't heard nowt,\nnor had nivvor thought aboot spirits bein' doon the pit, but I gets a\nbit gliffed myself at that, an' a bit later I ackshally heard them\nspeakin' aloud--sure an' certain,\" says he.\n\n'\"Did they gliff thoo just before the galloway ran away an' ran ower\npoor Jack Jefferson?\" says I.\n\n'\"Ay,\" says he, \"I got a gliff then, for I heard the spirits' voices\nshootin'[7] oot against us.\"\n\n'\"Gox!\" says I, \"to think o' that, noo! Wey, thoo gies us a gliff an'\naal; an' what dis thoo hear them sayin'?\" axes I.\n\n'\"'Here's the parsonator,' they shoots out aloud, 'that calls us frae\nwor rest. Lepp oot upon him, an' torment him! At him, Annexo!' or some\nsuch ootlandish name,--'at him, spirits aal!'\"\n\n'\"Sae thoo starts awa' likelies wi' the galloway at a gallop, an'\ncouldn't get him stopped on the incline?\" I axes him.\n\n'\"No, no, I was ower flay'd mysel' ti do owt; but the galloway must\nhave gotten a gliff at something. I mind I thought I saw a flash o'\nlight just at the moment, an' the galloway he couldn't abide a sudden\nlight across his eyes, he was that narvious; or mevvies it was the\nvoice that gliffed him same as it did us; anyways, awa' aff he goes\nwivvoot me, an' dashes aff doon the incline wiv us chasin' him an'\nshootin', 'Woa, woo-h, Paddie; woo-ah, thoo daftie!'\"\n\n'\"An' hoo far behind him dis thoo think thoo was when he come to the\ncorner where he ran inti poor Jack? Did thoo see Jack theesel', or\nhear him shoot out as the galloway butted him?\"\n\n'\"No,\" says he, \"I nivvor seen him, an' I wasn't far behind the\ngalloway nowther, for as soon as the tub got awa' frae the lines he\ncouldn't travel vary fast, for it was loaded. Aal I could hear was the\nbumpity-bump o' the tub, then smash inti the wall--smash--smash--an' a\ncrash as the tub swung ower an' dragged the galloway wiv it. I can\nmind nae mair nor that, mistor,\" says he, at the end ov his tale, \"for\nI fell slap ower Jack Jefferson's body i' the darkness, an' pitchin'\nfull upon my head was knocked senseless, till they come along an'\npicked us up. An' that's the whole story, Mister Carnaby,\" says he,\n\"an' I've done wi' the spirits, an' parsonatin', an' aal noo, for\nthey're treacherous things, there's nae doot aboot it,\" says he.\n\n'Weel, that was aal I could get oot ov him, sae I gives him some\nsweeties an' lets him gan, biddin' him not let on that I'd axed him\nany questions, ye ken, an' efter that I lay i' bed thinkin' it aal\nower an' makin' up a plan o' campaign for when \"the Heckler\" should be\nup an' aboot again.\n\n'Efter aboot another three days I was allowed oot by the doctor wiv a\nsort o' lampshade ower my eyelids, an' the next day bein' \"pay\nSaturday,\" an' the pit idle, I detarmines within my ain mind ti gan\ndoon maa lane an' hev a look round by myself; for it's no use trustin'\nanyone else when ye've got a job o' that calibry iv hand, ye ken.\n\n'I kenned where the trajiddy had taken place, o' course, sae I\ndetarmines ti gan ti the spot an' make a sarious of obsarvations.\n\"First place,\" I says ti myself, \"there winnot be much change i' the\nsurroundin's, for it's a new drift in by there that they are drivin',\nwi' 'Tom the Scholar' an' his marrow, an' not many workin'; an',\nsecondly, it's damp there wi' the salt water oozin' in through the\nrock, sae that footmarks will have a good chance ti stand a bit.\"\n\n'Noo, \"Scholar Tom\" had a tarr'ble large footprint, ye ken, an' it was\nthat I was i' search o', for I had my suspicions o' what might have\nhappened, an' I was convinced that that d----d, mistetched beggor was\nat the bottom o' poor Jack Jefferson's sudden endin'--ay, an'\nwhenivvor I thought o' that fine, brave chap an' his bright face an'\nhis happiness, I says ti myself, \"There'll be no rest nor pleasure nor\nnowt for 'the Heckler' till the mystery's discovered; an' it's yor job\nti discover it,\" I says ti myself.\n\n'He was bound ti have been there, for, o' course, it was him as\nshooted out that nonsense at Harry that had gliffed him, an' dootless\nit was him that had flashed his davy i' the galloway's eyes.\n\n'Jack, d'ye see, would have been lousin' off frae his wark an' walkin'\ndoon the drift at that time when the galloway started off; but what\nbeat me was that Jack couldn't hev got oot o' the way i' time, bein'\nfine an' active, grand at hearin' and seein', an' ne fool forbye that.\n\n'Noo, just when I had detarmined upon this i' maa mind a sort ov an\ninspiration takes us aal ov a sudden. \"Wey divvn't thoo take that\ndriver lad alang wi' thoo ti show thoo exactly where the trajiddy\nhappened?\" it says tiv us just as thoo it was a real, genu-ine voice\ni' my inside. \"Sink me!\" thinks I, \"it's a tarr'ble clivvor idea, an'\nsae I will.\"\n\n'\"Has thoo anything else ti add ti that, Inspiration?\" I axes it, an'\nshortlies efter it says, \"Divvn't thoo trust ower much ti what\nNicholson says, nor tell him o' yor plan beforehand, for he's i' Tom's\npower, an' tarrified ov him,\" it says again.\n\n'\"Gox!\" thinks I, \"but this is the champion; wey, I's as good a\nspiritualist as Tom himself.\"\n\n'\"There's one last question I must ax thoo,\" says I, for I hadn't\nproperly thought beforehand o' the difficulty o' gannin' doon the pit\non \"pay-Saturday,\" an' that is: \"Hoo i' the warld can us gan in-bye?\nfor thoo kens that naebody but the furnace-man, engine-man, an'\nhorse-keeper gans doon that day, an' if anyone else wanted ti, wey, he\nwould have ti get leave frae the manager, an' even then he would have\nti have a deputy alang wiv him. Answer us this, Inspiration,\" says I,\n\"an' it's a clagger for thoo, I's warned.\"\n\n'But, mevvies efter two minutes, it whispers back two words, \"drift,\"\nan' \"beer.\"\n\n'\"Drift?\" I repeats, an' \"beer?\" An' then aal at onst I sees the\nimplication, for I kenned the lodge-keeper at the head o' the drift\nnicelies, an', what's mair, I kenned what Sammy Cuthbertson, the local\npreacher, calls \"the joint iv his harness\" still better.\n\n'Sae I gans up tiv him quietly, an' I says tiv him, \"Geordy,\" says I,\n\"hoo much o' the best beer will five bob procure iv an emergency?\"\n\n'\"Five bob,\" says he, vary serious, \"will buy aal but two gallons o'\nthe best bitter, an' d---- the emergency,\" says he.\n\n'\"Dis thoo prefer it i' bottles, or iv a greyhen, or iv a pail--an'\naal at onst?\" says I.\n\n'\"Bottles is no use,\" says he, \"wey, the corks alone will mevvies take\na pint ti theirselves. Na, na, gie it ti me iv a pail for aal-roond\ndrinkin'.\"\n\n'\"Well,\" says I, \"thoo shall have it iv a pail if thoo'll just let us\nan' the lad here gan in doon by the drift for an hour ti investigate a\nprivate matter o' wor ain--just a visit ov inspection. No harm done,\nnobody need ken, an' up again within the hour, I'll promise thoo\nthat,\" says I.\n\n'Well, his face prolonged itself at that a bit. \"But if it was\nkenned,\" says he, \"I'd get my notice.\"\n\n'\"Nobody will ken but us three,\" says I; \"an', look thoo, thoo shall\nhave the pail at yor dinner to-morrow forenoon,\" says I.\n\n'That did the business for him, I's warn'd, an' he promises ti oot wiv\nhis key an' let us gan in by. Poor chap, though, he got his notice aal\nthe same, though it wasn't my blame: it was because he was ower-greedy\nan' thought he could get another pailful oot o' somebody else later.\n\n'Well, I says nowt ti Nicholson aboot gannin' doon the pit till the\nvary mornin', and then I gans along an' catches ahaud on him, an'\nsays, \"Ho-way,[8] thoo mun come along wiv us doon the pit, for I wants\nti see the place o' the accident myself, an' I hev arranged aboot\ngannin' doon,\" I says. Well, he turns quite white at this, an' whines\nan' cries not ti gan; but I was res'lute wiv him, an' tarr'fies him\nwiv a hint ov a gaol if he winnot come doon and show us aal I axes\nhim.\n\n'Well, we went by the drift and straight doon ti the \"Number 3,\nNorth,\" or \"Joan\" district, as we call it worsels, an' there we gropes\naboot the trolley-way, just at the corner where the accident must have\ntaken place, an' searched for footmarks.\n\n'The lad, ye ken, must just have started frae the putter's flat wiv a\nfull tub, an' aboot thirty yards doon he must have been gliffed.\nHereaboots, iv a fenced place, Tom must have waited on Jack's \"loosin'\noff\" frae his wark, an' another ten yards further on is where the\ngalloway must have run awa' off frae the rails. I had it aal mapped\noot ready i' my mind, an' it was just the details I had ti fit in wiv\nit.\n\n'There was mair tramplin' aboot than I had expected, what wi' the\ngalloway's stumblin', the tub ploughin' alang through the dirt, an'\nthe footprints o' the search-party that had come up ti the scene o'\nthe casualty; but for aal that, I could see here an' there the marks\no' Tom's big shoes, wi' the extry broad plates at heel an' toes he\nused ti wear.\n\n'Mevvies it wasn't ower much ti see, but it heartened us up, for it\nconformed us i' wor opinions, especially the fact that wherever they\nwas visible they was close in by the wall-side, as if he had been\nwishful ti hide himself as far as might be--a sort o' presumptuous\nevidence against him, as the lawyers call it.\n\n'\"I will have ti gan back ti bed again,\" I says ti myself, \"ti think\nit aal oot properly, for though I haven't a doot about it myself, I'll\nhave ti convince aal thae thick-heads o' judges at my lord's 'Size[9]\nbefore I gets him properly convicted, sae I must have it aal pieced\noot an' put together like a bairn's puzzle-map.\"\n\n'Well, we was slowly makin' wor way oot o' the passage when I hears\nsomething comin' up-by, creak, creakin' as it came. Weel, I's no\ncoward, I's warn'd, an' I'll face any man livin' that ye like ti\nmention, but I got a fair gliff at that, for I couldn't make oot what\nit might mean--Nicholson an' us bein' the only folk aboot doon there.\n\"Gox, it's Jack's ghost!\" think I ti mysel iv a sudden sweat o' fear.\nSae oot at once I turns my davy (lamp), an' the lad's, fearin' lest he\nmight notice us, an' shrinks back inti the corner o' the wall as small\nas could be, with the lad tremblin' aal ower next us. Efter a bit I\nsees a wee glimmer o' light shakin' i' the darkness, then a shadow ov\na man behind it, an' slowly, vary slowly, as if seekin' something, it\nmounts up the passage towards us.\n\n'\"Hist!\" says I ti the lad iv a thick whisper, \"just smear your face\nan' hands ower wi' clarts, or the ghaist will cop us,\" I says, an'\ngrabbin' a handful I clarts his face an' hands iv an instant o' time;\nthen I scrapes up a handful for mysel' an' aal, but i' reachin' oot\nfor a good fill o' clarts my hands struck up against a sort ov a heavy\nbar o' some specie or other.\n\n'I gied a bit haul at it, an' awa it comes up inti my hands--a small,\nheavy, but handy bit ov iron it was, mevvies about sixteen inches\nlong, wiv a sort o' knob at the end o't.\n\n'\"I'll have a look at thoo later,\" says I, an' claps it inti my pocket\nwi' the one hand, whiles I clarts my face wi' the other. Meantime the\ncreakin' thing was drawin' nigher an' nigher tiv us, but the light wiv\nit was tarr'ble dim, an' I couldn't have given it a name.\n\n'On came the light an' the shadow, but the creakin' noise had stopped;\n'stead o' that there was a squelch, squelch, as ov a man steppin' in\nan' oot' o' mud.\n\n'It passed us biv a finger's breadth, an' I almost shouted aloud by\nway o' relief, for it was a real live flesh-an'-blood man, wiv a\nfouled davy, an' no ghost--for ghosts canna spit, I's warn'd.\n\n'\"D---- thoo!\" I was just aboot ti shoot at him, comin' flayin' folk\ni' that fashion. \"Who is thoo, thoo ----\" when he stops short on a\nsudden, just round the corner above us, an' talks tiv himself oot\nloud. \"Ay, it'll be just aboot here,\" he muttered, \"that it fell,\" and\nI could have let flee a yell o' delight that would have brought a fall\no' stone doon, for it was no other voice than \"Tom the Scholar's\"\nhimsel'.\n\n'\"Thoo b----!\" I says ti mysel', an' clenches my fist tight; \"thoo\nb----! but I's copped thoo noo.\"\n\n'\"Tell ti me noo, Annexo,\" continues Tom, usin' the same furrin' sort\no' talk as he had ti the lad; \"tell ti me noo where it lies--the\nweapon that freed my destined bride frae unlawful arms. I mun hev it\nback, for there's a d----d chap i' wor village that they call 'the\nHeckler,'\" he gans on, the impittent scoondrel that he was, \"a daft\nfeller that's mad aboot dogs an' sic' like nonsense, but he has his\nsuspicions, an' mevvies might be dangerous, for he has been\nquestionin' my meejum, Nicholson, the driver lad. Speak then, Annexo,\nspeak, my beauty. Where lies my trusty weapon? Speak louder,\" says he\nagain, impatient like, \"for I canna hear i' the darkness.\"\n\n'Just on that instant I gets another inspiration i' my insides, an'\nwivvoot mair ado I whispers oot loud iv a fine, feminine, and\nsuperfluous voice: \"Search ti the right hand a bit lower doon, canny\nman,\" says I, \"an' thoo'll find what thoo is wantin',\" an' I held oot\nmy hand ready ti grasp his wi' when he stretched it oot.\n\n'\"Aha!\" says he, quite gratified like, \"sae thoo has found a voice,\nhas thoo?\"\n\n'It was nigh pitch darkness about us, for his davy had almost gane\nclean oot wi' the clogged wick, but I could feel his hands gropin'\ntowards us, an' I says ti mysel', \"Another foot, an' a murderer's\ncopped!\"\n\n'His hands came hoverin' ower mine, for I could feel the wind o' them;\nin another second he touches us, an', grabbin' ahaud ov him by way o'\nreply, I shouts oot, \"Ay, here's Annex-us, thoo b----!\"\n\n'The yell he let oot was fearfu', an', startin' back, he dragged his\narm oot o' my grasp, an' then leaped forward iv a flash, ducked past\nus, an' awa off round the corner he fled, us efter him like the aad\nbitch[10] efter a started hare.\n\n'He had dropped his lamp, an' it was darker nor Hell itself, but I\ncould hear him dashin' along i' front ov us at wondrous speed. Mad\nkeen I was, as I tore efter him ower bits o' balk an' stone lyin'\naboot doon the rolley-way, bended double sae as ti avoid the\nroof-beams. Bang up against a door I comes, shakin' mysel' intiv a\njelly by the shock, but when I had it opened an' was through I could\nstill catch the sound ov his footfalls not far in front ov us. \"He'll\nhave come a big bat hissel' against the door,\" I thinks ti mysel' as I\nstarted off again, \"ay, an' bein' before us he'll have aal the\nobstacles ti contend wi' first ov aal. Huzza, ho-way!\" an' I tore\nefter him, a fair deevil for recklessness--makin' no doot he was for\nthe main rolleyway, an' sae oot by the main drift by which we had\nentered the pit.\n\n'There came the thud ov another door, an' I gans a bit mair cautious\nlike, fendin' wi' my hands i' front ov us. Shortlies efter I notices\nthat the footfalls sounded fainter-like; they seemed ti be comin' frae\nthe left-hand side noo an' not i' front ov us.\n\n'Aal ov a sudden I minds mysel' ov a return air-way that would lead\noot by the main drift. \"Gox!\" I thinks, \"thoo's hit the mark, but\nwhere the openin' is I cannot mind, for it isn't travelled biv any one\nbarrin' the deputies. He passed the door i' front ov us, but bi the\nsound he's ti the left hand ov us noo;\" sae I felt along the wall till\nI comes tiv an open way. \"Ho-way,\" says I, mad ti think he might\nescape us efter aal, \"ho-way, thoo'll get him yet!\"\n\n'On, on I went at a reckless speed, ti make up for my bad turn, an' iv\nanother minute I gied tongue like a foxhound, for I heard him pat,\npattin' on i' front ov us. \"I's copped thoo!\" I yelled through the\ndarkness tiv him, ti tarr'fy him, for I heard him stumblin' amangst\nsome loose props or gear o' some sort quite plainly, \"I's copped the\nmurderer!\"\n\n'Foot upon foot I gains on him; I hears him pantin' just a yard or two\ni' front ov us. I grasps oot wi' my hands an' touches his shoulder,\nan' he yells wi' terror, givin' a leap like a hare, an' slips frae\nunder my hands.\n\n'Doon, full length, doon I fell wiv a smash like a fall o' stone, half\nstunned, my head like a night o' stars.\n\n'Suddenly there comes a yell o' horror--then a thud, a clump, clump,\nan' a c-clush, an' then stark silence, an' doon, right doon at the\nbottom ov a staple fifteen fathoms deep ten yards i' front ov us lay\naal that was left o' the murderer copped, clean copped, by \"the\nHeckler.\"'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[4] 'Mistetched' = spoiled; of ill habits. _Cf._ Chaucer's 'tetch,' a\nspot.\n\n[5] 'Cavil' = the quarterly ballot amongst coal-hewers for their\nplaces down the pit. Seams differ greatly in quality and depth of\ncoal, and in ease of working. This is the miners' own rough-and-ready\nmethod of adjusting the inequalities.\n\n[6] The chairman of a local District Council is _ex-officio_ a\nmagistrate.\n\n[7] 'Shootin'' (shouting). 'Shuttin',' on the other hand, would mean\nshooting, whereby quaint confusions have occasionally arisen.\n\n[8] Come along.\n\n[9] The Assizes.\n\n[10] Viz., Bonnie Bella, a famous greyhound of 'the Heckler's.'\n\n\n\n\n'IN MEMORIOV'M'\n\n\n'Ay, that's what 'tis,' replied 'the Heckler' to my query, 'it's an\n\"in memoriov'm\"--Latin, ye ken, meanin' in memory ov him. The words is\nalike, mevvies, but it's Latin language, I's warn'd, an' I howked it\noot upon that headstone myself wiv a clasp-knife.'\n\nI knelt down upon the sandy dune and brushed aside the bents that\nnearly covered the squat gray stone with their long lashes, and\neventually deciphered a straggling array of figures which for their\nillegibility would have enraptured an antiquary.\n\n'It was just below us,' continued 'the Heckler,' 'that I found his\ncap, an' thinkin' him drooned, an' him bein' a favour-yte wi' me, I\njust put up that bit stone for him an' carved his initials on it, an'\nthe Latin, an' G. C., that's for us, \"the Heckler,\" ye ken, his mark.\nBut it was a false alarm efter aal, an' noo that Jim Hedley's a Right\nHon. Lord Mayor oot iv Australie, I's warn'd but when he's put under\nthe sod he'll hev a hearse an' four horses an' a proper musulyum'\n(mausoleum) 'tiv hisself.'\n\n'What made you think he was drowned?' I inquired. 'Did you think it a\ncase of suicide?'\n\n'Ay, o' course I did; we aal did that, an' not wivvoot reasons,'\nresponded 'the Heckler,' 'for he was full o' misery at that time, an'\nwanted ti get shot o' the whole lot ov it. Jim was a fine, tall,\nproper lad--\"bonny Jim\" the lasses called him--wunnerfu' handy, too,\niv aal sorts of ways, an' as for behaviour, wey, he could talk ti my\nlord as canny as tiv a pot-boy.\n\n'Well, wiv aal these gifts o' fortune it wasn't surprisin' he got\nhisself sweetheartin' wiv a young, bonny, quiet-faced lassie, daughter\nov aad Sheepshanks, the farmer, close in by the village.\n\n'It was a bit lift for Jim, for she had some brass, but aad\nSheepshanks, he tries to forbid the \"callins\"' (banns) 'i' church;\n\"for what's a pitman,\" says he, \"that a farmer's daughter should marry\non?--a dirty-faced, drunken, dog-lovin', gamblin' chep,\" says he; an'\na lot o' gob o' that kind, ye ken, bein' a red-hot Tory wiv a lot o'\nNoah's-ark kind ov ideas iv his head.\n\n'The lassie didn't think that, though; she just warshipped Jim,\nfollowin' him aboot wiv her eyes everywhere, just like the aad bitch'\n(here he nodded towards the greyhound beside him) 'does \"the Heckler.\"\n\n'Well, they marries an' has a bit fam'ly, an' Jim gans ahead quick; he\nwas marrow' (mate) 'wi' me as a hewer yence, an' then he becomes a\ndeputy, an' bein' a great reader an' a gran' speaker, there was some\ntalk o' makin' him wor Member o' Parlyment when he got a bit older.\nWell, it had aal been plain sailin' for Jim so far, an' everybody\nthought his success was sartin, but he soon came tarr'ble nigh makin'\na tragedy ov hisself, poor chap.\n\n'There was a young widow woman came ti live doon here at the Prospect\nHouse ower there. She'd been married on a fat old chap that had made a\nlot o' brass i' the toon i' publics, an' they used to come here for a\nbit i' the summer, an' when he died she comes doon ti the \"Prospect\"\nti bide for good an' aal.\n\n'I sometimes think,' continued my companion after a slight pause,\n'that it's a sair pity folks isn't sometimes drooned like kittens or\n\"put under\" same as dogs that turn oot no use. It wud save a lot o'\nmisfortunes an' misery, I's warn'd, an' unless ye drooned a Gladstone,\nor a John Wesley, or mevvies even a \"Heckler,\" the world would be aal\nthe better o't.\n\n'Anyways, she should have been drooned slap off as a babby, for she\nwas a rank bad un--just rank bad ti the bone--an' when a woman is bad,\nshe's just the devil's own viewer[11] or deputy, by Gox!\n\n'She had been on the stage, 'twas said, at one time, an' there was\nqueer stories aboot her, so that the gentry-folk aboot here would have\nnowt ti do wiv her, sae she had aal the better opportunity ti play her\ntricks wi' Jim.\n\n'She was free wi' the brass, ye ken, an' give subscriptions awa for\nthe askin', providin' she had her name an' address clagged up large on\nthe play-bills, an' was a champion at gettin' up concerts for wor\nMechanic Institute an' such-like entertainments.\n\n'That was hoo she first got a hand upon Jim, for he had a gran'\nvoice--a perfect champion at harmony he was, an' she just buttered him\nup properly. It was \"Oh, Mr. Hedley, an' what a fortin ye would have\nmade in the Opera!\" \"Sing it again, Mr. Hedley, it's fair ravishin',\"\nan' so she carried on till she had him awa to practise duetties wiv\nher at her hoos, an' made him stay ti supper wi' glasses o' wine tiv\nit--yellow shampain wine that'll set your brain iv a froth, I b'lieve,\nan' at the finish she has him just drugged wiv her enchantments.\n\n'There was one night I mind I was oot walkin' an' chanst ti pass by\nalang that road there that leads past the hoos--the trees wasn't grown\nup then, ye ken, an' I could spy a bit in through the windie, which\nwas open on the night--it bein' summer then, d'ye see.\n\n'She was settin' beside the pianner playin' pretence wiv it, an'\ncastin' up white eye-glances at Jim soft-like, noo an' again, with a\nsort ov insolence, too, as though she kenned her power ower\nhim--drawin' oot the very marrow an' soul ov him wiv her perfections.\n\n'She was aal clad i' silks an' satins, like a play-actress--her bosom\ngleamin' wi' jools, an' Jim was leanin' against the pianner gazin' at\nher, fair drunk wiv her blandishments.\n\n'I cuddn't stand by an' just do nowt ava, sae I let fly a yell upon\nthe night, \"Ho-way home ti thy own lawfu' missus, an' leave that\nd----d hussy alone.\"\n\n'He gave a sudden start at that, an' leaps round ti the windie, claps\nit ti wiv a smash, an' pulls the curtains ower it.\n\n'Well, I kenned then by that token that it was aal ower wi' Jim. She\nhad him fast, an' nowt could be done, for interferin' i' them cases is\nwarse than useless; but I was sair, sair grieved for him an' his wee\nquiet bonny-faced wife, an' I walked awa home callin' that woman aal\nthings I could lay my tongue ti under heaven.\n\n'Things went gradually from warse ti warse; he neglected his work an'\navoided his wife, an' he became tarr'ble violent iv his temper, an'\nnigh offered ti fight me yence when I tried ti argy wiv him upon his\nfoolishness. Well, the crissis comes one night when his wife follows\nhim ti the Prospect Hoos an' walks straight inti the drorin'-room\nwhere him an' the other woman was. He'd just been threatened by the\nviewer, d'ye see, wi' gettin' his notice if he didn't pull hisself\ntegither, an' knawin' things were aaltegither wrang wiv him, he just\ngans slap off ti the woman oot o' pure recklessness, for he was none\no' yo'r half an' half gentlemen, an' as he was gannin' ti the deevil,\nwey, he wud gan wiv a brass band, ye ken.\n\n'His wife comes in upon them like a ghost, an' never heedin' the other\nwoman, cries tiv him, haudin' oot her arms for him, \"Oh, come back,\nJim, come back; divvn't break my heart!\"\n\n'Jim says nowt, but glares moodily on the ground, an' there's silence\nfor a bit. Then the woman begins ti laugh saftly tiv herself, eyein'\nJim's missus scornfu' like frae top ti toe standin' there, small an'\nshabby-dressed an' tearfu', an', \"Wey doesn't thoo gan?\" says she,\n\"here's yo'r hooskeeper come ti fetch thoo home!\" she says.\n\n'Jim gies a start at this an' looks up wi' blazing eyes at his\ntemptress, then he says tiv his wife, \"Gan home, Mary, gan home; this\nis no a fit place for thoo,\" an' sae she gans awa softly, weepin' like\na desolate bairn.\n\n'Soon as the door shuts he turns upon the other woman, an' he says\nsternly, \"This is the end o't, Susan; I'm gannin' awa' an' ye'll never\nsee me mair. You've plenty brass, an' can fend for yo'rself. I've\ngiven thoo my life, an' I can do nae mair; sae good-bye, my lass, for\never an' aye.\"\n\n'But she rushes tiv him, an' clasps her arms roond aboot his neck an'\nsweethearts him an' swears they must get married; but Jim, he puts her\nquietly awa', an' wiv a stone-set face gans oot o' the hoos an'\nstraight for the shore.\n\n'Tossin' his cap on ti the ground, he walks right inti the waters an'\nbegins swimmin' oot, right oot inti the sea, there ti droon hissel'\nan' his troubles straight awa.\n\n'Well, mevvies he was ower strong ti be easy ti droon; mevvies the\ncold water cleared his mind a bit, an' he thought shame on hissel' ti\nleave wife an' bairns ti shift for theirsels; anyhoo, as he said\nefter, when he saw the red light of a little schooner ridin' waitin'\nfor the tide off the harbour, a thought cam intiv his brain, \"Wey not\ngan right awa an' make a fresh start iv a fresh place?\"\n\n'The thought grows on him, an' he swims oot ti the schooner just as\nshe was standin' awa for London town, an' he hails her an' is taken on\nboard i' the nick o' time. Another minute an' she would have been oot\no' sight an' hearin', an' Jim would have been a corpse in another ten\nminutes, I's warn'd.\n\n'Well, nowt is heard ov him for months an' months. \"The Heckler\"\ncarves an \"In memoriov'm\" on that headstone; his missus gans inti\n\"blacks,\" an' the other woman leaves the Prospect Hoos an' gans right\nawa from these parts.\n\n'One day though, Jim's missus comes alang tiv us cryin' an' laughin'\naal at yence, haudin' up a letter and kissin' it between whiles. \"It's\nfrom Jim! Jim!\" she cries, \"an' Jim, sweet Jim, he kept hissel' alive\nfor me an' Jackie an' Sal! Oh, he loves me yet, my Jim!\"\n\n'Well, it seems as hoo he had gan oot tiv Australia, an' efter a bit\nwanderin' had gettened hisself a very canny sitivation at a gold mine,\nan' he sends aff at yence for his missus an' bairns, an' a week later\nawa they starts.\n\n'They finds Jim doin' first-class when they gets there, an' he went\nahead like a hoos-o'-fire as soon as he gets his missus an' bairns\nback tiv hissel', an' the past wiv its clartiness was just clean wiped\nout between them.\n\n'An' noo he's the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor o' Ballarat, or some\nsuch place, an' cannot mak' enough ov his missus and bairns, they say.\n\n'There's some women mevvies,' added 'the Heckler' in conclusion, 'who\nwouldn't have pardoned their man, but she was one o' the sort that are\njust faithfu' ti death--nowt can tarr'fy them aff, an' it's fair\nprovidential that it should be so, for there's many men noo livin' who\nwud just have been iv hell lang syne else.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[11] Manager.\n\n\n\n\n'THE HECKLER' UPON WOMENFOLK\n\n\n'Men are kittle cattle enough,' replied 'the Heckler' oracularly, from\nhis position of vantage on the top of a gate, to some question of mine\nconcerning an indignation meeting held recently to protest against\nsome matter about which no two people could give a like account; 'but\nthey're nowt ti what womenfolk is. Ye can get roond most men easy\nenough if ye've a bit tax.'\n\n'Tax?' I queried aloud, somewhat mystified. 'What tax? not rates an'\ntax----'\n\n'Gan on wi' thoo--rates an' taxes be d----!' retorted the oracle\nswiftly. 'No, nowt ti do wi' them things; just tax, or tacts, mevvies\nit is, meanin' a pleasant way wi' ye, a bit touch o' the cap when the\nmanager's vext wi' ye, a turn o' management when a drunken man wants\nti fight ye for nowt at aal, ye ken, an' sae forth. Wow, but ye can\nfettle most things amangst men wiv a little o' that social lubricant,\nbut wi' women it's different aaltigether; tax is nae use wi' them;\nit's just throwin' pearls before swine.'\n\n'Holloa!' I interrupted again. 'What would the missus say to that?'\n\n'Not hevin' heard it, she'll say nowt,' retorted 'the Heckler'\nseverely.\n\n'Well, as I was aboot to say when thoo forgot theeself, and disturbed\nthe meetin' wi' yor interruptions, most men has foibles--some's\ndog-men like myself, some's book-men, some's gard'ners, some's\nbeer-barrils, an' sae forth, an' if ye mind this ye can get what ye\nwant usuallies oot o' them. But women's a different breed aaltigether.\nThey divvn't care for the same things as men, an' ye cannet get roond\nthem, I's warn'd, for they elwis gets roond ye instead. A man has no\nambitions till he's married, Maistor John. Mevvies he's keen aboot\nthis, an' that, an' 'tother thing, but that's nowt. Noo, woman's just\nchockfull ov ambitions aal her life long, an's nivvor, no, nivvor,\nsatisfied from her cradle tiv her grave, an' even then she's wantin'\nfower horses tiv her hearse. Tak' a wee girlie for an instance: she's\nelwis wantin' new claes; then she's wantin' a man, then bairns, then a\nhoos ov her own, then a better cloak than Mariarann nex' door; an'\nwhen she gets them aal she's not satisfied, not one little bit, but's\nwarse than ivvor.\n\n'Noo I'll gie ye an instance o't.\n\n'Ye'll dootless mind havin' seen or heard tell ov Tom Archbold, yence\nfore overman here i' the aad pit, a great, big, buirdly man, champion\nhewer o' the colliery at one time, who aye took the lead i' the\nvillage at every bit sport, an' carry-on, an' jollification that might\nbe gannin' on at any time.\n\n'Well, there was a little wee bit lassie ov aboot twenty-five years ov\nage, who had been married yence, but had lost her man iv an accident\ndoon the pit--a fall o' stone, ye ken--an' nae sooner has she buried\nhim than she's on the look-oot for anither mate.\n\n'Well, bein' the littlest woman i' the village, she natorally--such\nbein' woman's human nature--tak's a fancy for the biggest man iv it,\nmeanin' Tom Archbold, an' she gans for him straight awa.\n\n'Ye'll hev seen a setter dog workin' for a partridge or a rabbit iv a\nrough grass field, mevvies. Weel, it was just the same method o'\nprocedure wiv her. She gets a scent o' what she was wantin'; she draws\nupon him up wind; then she gets a tip-toe, steals tiv him till her\nbreath's fair upon him, an' the man's done--fair done--clean copped,\nand it's \"for better an' warse till death do us part.\"\n\n'So it was wi' Lizzie an' Tom.\n\n'Tom was a weeda (widower), an' on the look-out for anither missus,\nan' havin' had a great big woman for his first--a proper marrow ov\nhimself i' size an' shape--an' not havin' been ower well satisfied wiv\nhis venture, he thinks he'll try a smaller article for his second\nlott'ry.\n\n'Well, Tom was elwis very free an' open wiv his conversation, an'\nmevvies Lizzie, she gets ti hear ov it; but she pretends ti tak' no\nnotice o' Tom when she passes along the Raa,[12] or meets Tom i' the\nstreet. She just sails past him, noo wiv head i' the air, again wiv\nher eyes upon the ground, mournfu' like for the loss of her man, an'\nTom becomes quite bewitched by her manners, for she was a fair\ncontrast wiv Bella, who had ti tarrify him wiv a summons from the\npollis at the finish before she could get him ti marry her i' chorch.\n\n'Well, she bags him clivvor at the finish, an' they gets theyselves\nmarried wivoot more ado.\n\n'A week efter comes \"pay-Friday,\"[13] an', natorally, quite apart from\nthe \"celebration of his nuptials,\" as the newspaper cheps say, he gets\nhissel' as boosy as can be, what wi' standin' treat, an' bein' treat\nan' aal, an' efter closin' time it was wi' some difficulty that me an'\nmy marrer gets him along home.\n\n'We knocks on the door, an' we assists him in, an' he staggers up tiv\nhis missus, who was sittin' iv her armchair knittin', an' tries ti gie\nher a bit chuck under the chin. \"Ho--way----,\" he stutters, \"Lizzie,\nmaa lass, an' put us ti bed!\" an' stoopin' down iv a staggerin' way ti\nkiss her loses his balance, an' flops doon unexpected on the floor.\n\"Ye needn't wait,\" Lizzie says tiv us, haughty-like, takin' no notice\no' Tom, an' sae oot we gans, an' leaves them. But we just stops a\nminute ootside ti hear Lizzie gie him his gruel; an', wow! but she let\nhim have it, an' no mistake! \"Thoo great flamin' drunken lubbert!\"\nsays she, \"comin' home ti my hoos at this time o' night, drunk as a\nlord, an' only been married a week!\" she cries. \"Thoo mun just get\nused wiv it, maa lass,\" says he solemnly from the floor; \"for aa elwis\ngets drunk reg'lor on a pay-Friday; an' it'sh maa hoos thoo ----, for\naa's maistor,\" he says, thinkin', mevvies, he mun assert hissel' even\nif he has had his gills.\n\n'\"Put thoo ti bed?\" cries she. \"Wey, I'll not touch thoo, nor let thoo\ntouch me nowther till thoo's sober again, an's begged maa pardon.\"\n\n'\"Pardon-sh?\" says Tom, an' laughs, fair amused by her impittence.\n\"Wey, if maa legs wesn't sae wambly the night, I'd larn thoo a lesson,\nthoo ----\"\n\n'\"Get up, an' try, thoo sponge o' beer,\" she says, an' snaps her\nfingers iv his face. \"Get up, an' try,\" cries she again. \"I daur thoo\nti;\" an' she actually has the impittence ti stir him wiv her foot.\nJust fancy that! A yard an' a half o' petticoat, fair insultin' upon a\nproper mountain ov a man like Tom! The door was a bit open, d'ye see,\nan' my marrer an' me could see them two comics quite plain.\n\n'Well, Tom, he thinks things is comin' tiv a pretty pass if his missis\nis gannin' ti clean her boots on him efter a week's marryin'; so, much\nagainst his will, he pulls hissel' tegither, an' by the help o' the\nbedpost gets on his feet.\n\n'\"Wey,\" cries Lizzie again, lookin' him ower mair scornfu' than ever,\n\"thoo's as unsteady on thy feet as a horse wi' the staggers!\" she\nsays. \"I could knock thoo doon wi' one finger!\"\n\n'\"I bet-sh a sovereign thoo cannet; ay, an' anither that I'll drive\nyo'r lugs reet intiv yo'r heid wi' one bat o' my fist,\" says he; an'\nhe puffs hissel' oot as he searches for the coin, an' spits on his\nhands iv a preliminary sort o' way.\n\n'Then, sudden, she comes up tiv him, gies him a tap wiv her\nforefinger, unexpected like, straight on the breast, an' Tom, taken\nunawares, lurches backward, catches his foot iv a bracket, crashes\nintiv a chair, an' falls wiv a tarr'ble thump an' a racket of\nfurniture straight on ti the flaggin'. He gies a little lift ov his\nhead as he looks up in a dazed way for a moment from the floor. Then\nhe says, sinkin' back again, \"There's been a fall o' stone; gan an'\nfetch the depity,\" he says, then sort o' dwams (swoons) awa.\n\n'Lizzie, she looks him ower for awhile, cool as a policeman wiv a\nlantern, then lifts a pillow off the bed, an' puts it under his head\nas he lies stretched upon the floor. Next, she takes the boots off her\nman, an' sae leaves him ti bide where he lies, whilst she gans ti bed\nher lane.\n\n'Next mornin' Tom feels hissel' as sick as a bad bat o' the head an' a\nwambly stomach can make a man, an' \"lies in\" while his missus gies him\nwarm things ti drink, an' tends him like a bairn.\n\n'Well, she has him properly caught, for he has ti lie there idle the\nbest part ov a week, an' cannet work for another week efter that, the\nskelp he'd got frae the fall bein' a serious affair, as it seemed.\n\n'When he gets up again he was sae savage at the chaff he gets aboot\nbein' knocked doon biv his missus that he gans back tiv his hoos iv a\nhurry, tak's off his belt, an' is gannin' ti strap her within an inch\nov her life, when she says, \"Tom, an' who was it that's been nursin'\nthoo this last fortnight?\" An' she axes it quietly, facin' him wivoot\na tremor, her eyes fixed upon his.\n\n'Tom stands there wiv his arm uplifted; but though he was hot ti\nstrike her, somehoo or ither, as he said efter, he was fair bested if\nhe could manage it.\n\n'Well, that was aboot the beginnin' an' the end o't, for she'd\nconquered him properly, an' Mister Six-Foot-Two soon found oot he'd\ngot a proper taskmaster for his missus, even though she was but a yard\nan' a half high, an' looked as though ye could have snapt her across\nyor arm. She didn't knock him doon again, but she was elwis surprisin'\nhim inti startin' things, an' when he tired ov it she would scorn him a\nbit, an' ask, \"An' what's the good o' bein' a strong man if ye cannet\nshow yor strength? Any fool can get drunk,\" says she, \"an' lose his\nbrass bettin'; but thoo's a strong man, Tom, I's warn'd, an' I've bet\nNed Lee's wife a dollar that thoo can walk past the Pitman's Arms on\npay-Friday night wivvoot ever lookin' inside!\"\n\n'Well, that was the way o't i' Lizzie's case. She soon had her\nSamson's locks clipped short, an' iv a few years' time he becomes a\ndepity, a back overman, an' finally fore overman, has a hoos ov his\nown, an' a whole raa (row) o' cottages.\n\n'Some has different ways from others,' reflected my companion,\nfurther, 'but aal womenfolk's ambitious.'\n\n'Noo, tak' my own case--\"the Heckler's\"--when I got married on the aad\nlady there was no nonsense aboot the business. \"Ho-way,\" I says, \"will\nye tak' us, Betty?\" for I kenned nicely beforehand she was the right\nsort for us, havin' obsarved her previous, an' walked oot wiv her a\nSunday night or two. \"Ay, an' I will, Geordie,\" she says thankfully,\nan' as meek as skim milk; but for aal that I've been got the best o'\nlots o' time biv her ambition, an' noo, here I is, wiv a fam'ly o'\nseven, an' the missus insistin' upon Harry's--that's the eldest boy,\nye ken--gannin' ti the Grammar School ti parfect hissel' as a scholar.\nAy, wor Harry's a proper scholar, I's warn'd, but schoolin's tarr'ble\nexpensive.\n\n'An' noo, I'll just gie ye this bit advice, Maistor John. Divvn't thoo\nget married unless thoo marries a heiress, for, I tell thoo, aal\nwomen's ambitious, an' ambition's a tarr'ble expensive hobby.\n\n'Gox! yes, just fearful, Maistor John.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[12] Row.\n\n[13] Pitmen are paid fortnightly on the Friday: the following day is\n'pay-Saturday.' Non-pay-Saturday is known as 'baff-Saturday,' the\nderivation of which no man knows to this day.\n\n\n\n\nTHE 'CALEB JAY'\n\n(THE 'QUEL OBJ\u00caT')\n\n\nI.\n\nThe 'Caleb Jay'[14] was not, as his nickname of itself might testify,\npopular in our pit village of Black Winning. His appearance was\nagainst him in the first instance, and he continued to be shy and\nreserved even after you might be said to have made his acquaintance.\nReserve is unpopular in any society, but in the lower social grades,\nwhere life is of a freer and more hearty character than in the\npropriety-loving circles of the well-to-do, it may be said to be one\nof the 'seven deadly sins.'\n\nThere was no reserve about Tom, his elder brother, who was a\ngood-looking, idle, somewhat dissolute youth of twenty-three years of\nage.\n\nTom was always ready to 'stand in' for a 'ha'penny loo,' never\nflinched from a 'bout at the beer,' could throw a quoit well, when his\neye was clear and his hand steady, and was never at a loss with the\nlasses.\n\nTom, therefore, was a general favourite, being 'well ta'en up wi'' by\nall save a few of the more serious-minded people; and 'Caleb Jay'\nsuffered, I think, partly through contrast with his brother.\n\n'Caleb Jay' had been injured when working as a putter down the pit,\nand consequently was 'game of one leg.' He wore the cast-off finery of\nhis brother, the coloured scarves and embroidered waistcoats of his\nfestive occasions--out of economy, no doubt, but some said 'oot o'\nfoolishness.'\n\nCertainly they did not suit well with his sallow complexion and thin,\npeaked countenance, and with the big and weary eyes.\n\nHe worked now at any odd job he could find. He had the care of the\nviewer's strip of kitchen garden, and went round with papers, etc.;\nbut it was not much that he earned, apparently, for his mother, who\ndoted on her handsome son Tom, was often heard to complain that he\nwasn't worth his keep.\n\nHe had a strange way of mysteriously disappearing for some days on\noccasion, sometimes even for a week at a stretch, and sundry persons,\nannoyed perhaps by his reticence, hinted at secret dissipation.\n\nIf closely questioned, he would admit having had a 'job i' the toon,'\nor 'ower away yonder,' pointing vaguely this way or that; and gossip\nhad at least this confirmation for its uncharitable suspicion, that he\nalways returned pale, tired and haggard-looking.\n\nSome of the boys had tried to 'nab' him either coming or going on one\nof these expeditions of his, but he was 'cuter nor a cushat'[15] as I\noverheard a sporting youth lament who had followed him in early\nmorning all the way to Oldcastle, and there in the suburbs had\nsuddenly lost him just on the brink of discovering the secret.\n\nGradually we became accustomed to his flittings, and he was spied upon\nno more; but for my own part I thought I had, by a comparison of the\ntimes and seasons of his absences, at least discovered this much--that\nhe was usually away at the incidence of fairs and festivals.\n\nI think I knew him more intimately than any other person in the\nvillage, except, perhaps, our Methodist minister, who never rested\ntill he had succoured any who might be in 'sickness, sorrow, or\ndistress'; but to neither of us, I found, on comparing notes, had he\never vouchsafed any confidences.\n\nThe only way in which I eventually discovered I could be of any use to\nhim was by lending him books. He was extremely fond of reading, and\nhad a special taste for dramatic poetry, which he occasionally\ngratified by coming to my lodgings, and there devouring the historical\nplays and tragedies of Shakespeare.\n\nI had once or twice on these occasions endeavoured to extort from him\nthe secret of his absences, but the only result had been an increased\nreserve on his part, followed by an almost immediate departure from my\npresence, so that I had soon desisted from further questioning him on\nthe point.\n\nAt the same time, I confess I entertained a lingering hope that I\nmight one day be able to penetrate the mystery; for mystery of some\nsort I was convinced it was, though not of a vulgar kind.\n\n\nII.\n\nIt so chanced that I was detained in Bridgeton on the day of the\nannual fair and hiring, and having two hours to wait for my train, I\ndetermined to pass the time away by noting the humours of the\nfestival. Farmers' wives, laden with 'remnants' and cheap bargains in\nthe hardware line, were slowly surging through the throng, towards the\nvarious publics, in search of their 'men' and the 'trap.' Hinds, male\nand female, having now 'bound their bargains' with their masters, were\ncoasting round the booths and stalls, 'putting in' at all the\nale-houses they passed in their uncertain voyaging.\n\nThe men were somewhat sheepish still, not having taken sufficient beer\non board as yet to lose the shyness of the countryman in town. They\nconfined themselves to chaffing one another, to casting stray glances\nat their sweethearts, who tittered in their wake, and to offering,\nwhen moved to gallantry, 'anuther glass o' yel.'\n\nA squad of pitmen here and there, their customary rivalries heated\nwith liquor, were challenging each other noisily at the various\n'try-your-strengths' and 'prove-your-powers' that were anchored in the\ncorners of the market-place.\n\nMy attention was next attracted by the clash of cymbals and flamboyant\ndrum-drubbings. ''Ere y'are, ladies and gents, 'ere y'are! Yo'r friend\nan' acquaintance Bob Stevens, wiv his high-class dancin', trapezin',\nShakespearian an' variety entertainment!'\n\nThe great flaring gas-brackets, with their smoky tongues stabbing the\ndarkness fitfully, lit up a most delectable advertisement. I produced\n'tuppence,' 'walked up,' as invited, to the tent, and found myself in\nthe 'hall of amusement and instruction combined.' It was already\ncrowded, but I eventually discovered a seat in the far corner.\n\nCries of 'Back! back!'[16] were still ringing in the air, and after a\nmoment or two a most cadaverous-looking clown reappeared and advanced\nto the footlights.\n\nHis haggard, melancholy mien was in admirable artistic contrast to his\ngarb and the burlesque humour of his song. '_And oh_,' sang he, at the\nend of each verse relating some contretemps of the bashful lover, '_it\nmakes me very, very lively! Very, very lively!_' he repeated, as he\nstep-danced up and down the tiny stage amidst the guffaws of his\naudience.\n\nIt was no great thing to do, perhaps; but it was admirably done. There\nwas no extravagance in his accompanying actions, nor exaggeration of\nemphasis anywhere. In short, there was something of the genuine artist\nin him, and it was evident that he held his quaintly assorted\n'tuppeny' audience in his grasp.\n\nI grew strangely interested in the queer little figure before me.\nSomething about him appealed strongly to the imagination.\n\nHe was encored again, and as I watched him more narrowly his aspect\nbecame more and more pathetic. I grew convinced that he was suffering\nphysical pain; the blot of vermilion on his nose glowed brighter;\nbeneath his mask of white I could see ashen-coloured lines streaking a\ncolourless face.\n\n'Poor little chap,' thought I; 'he's starving!'\n\nJust at that moment he concluded at the 'wings,' bowing to the\naudience. His linen blouse blew open as he turned, and below a ragged\nshirt thus momentarily visible I saw that which made me suddenly feel\nsick. Before I recovered myself he had passed out on a step, humming\nhis refrain, '_Oh, it makes me very, very lively!_'\n\nNow, what I saw was a tumour which could only mean one thing, and that\nwas death--an early and painful death probably. 'He's not starving,' I\nmuttered to myself; 'poor little chap, he's dying!'\n\nI thought I would go out into the fresh air, but as I prepared to rise\nmy eye caught sight of a chink in the canvas through which the 'green\nroom' was visible.\n\nThe trapeze gentleman was now performing, and the clown was removing\nhis 'make up.' Now that he was off the stage I could see that he had a\nlimp. A gust of wind came suddenly, enlarging the opening. He turned,\napparently to close the orifice; his eyes met mine, and in that\nstartled second I knew him to be the 'Caleb Jay.'\n\nRepressing a cry of surprise, I came out, and went round to the back\nto wait for him.\n\n\nIII.\n\n'Now, tell me,' said I, as I led him up to the station, 'why do you do\nit? You know you oughtn't to, for it will kill you if you exert\nyourself like that.'\n\n'Ay, an' that's why,' replied he, 'for I ken I'm dyin'; I went an'\naxed a doctor a while back, iv Oldcastle, an' he says, \"I'll gie ye a\nyear ti live at the ootside,\" says he.'\n\n'Then, why do it?' I urged. 'Do you love it so, or is it for the sake\nof the money?'\n\n'Ay,' he replied, gasping a little, as we mounted the slope to the\nstation, 'that's it. It's for the brass. Ye ken Tom, my brother? Well,\nit's for him i' pairt, an' i' pairt for my mother, who wants a bit\nfrae me for my keep, ye ken. Noo, Tom's a bonny fellow, ain't\nhe?--just a joy ti the eye ti look upon; an' he's aye wantin' a bit\nmair brass for this, an' that, an' t'ither, an', man, it's a pleasure\nti me ti slave a bit for him. There's nae use o' brass for me--me\nthat' just the puir \"Caleb Jay\"--but Tom's like a live lord when he's\nplenty of brass; an', man, but he spends it weel!'\n\nI was silent for a while, thinking of the tragedy of it all. Then I\ninquired again: 'Well, but how did you know you had this gift of\nacting and singing and impersonation? and why did you hide your talent\nso carefully from us all?'\n\n'It came ower us first, I think,' he answered, 'when reading\nShakespeare an' tragedies an' sic like. I seemed ti see the vary\nactors theirselves before my eyes, an' I fair felt like them, ye ken.\nYe'll think it strange, mevvies, but grandfeythor, he had a bit talent\nthat way, an' ran awa frae his home, an' made his livin' play-acting\nan' piano-playin', an' singin', an' aal. He took ill somewhere aboot\nhere, an' died, an' feythor, he took ti warkin' at the pits, an'\nthat's the story of it,' concluded my little companion shyly.\n\n'But with a gift like yours, why didn't you tell _me_ of it, for\nexample, or the minister, and perhaps we could have got you a proper\nstart somewhere?'\n\n'Ay, I kenned that,' said he, 'an' thank ye kindlies; but I found, on\ntryin' it, that I wesn't strang enow for't iv a reg'lor way; an'\nforbye that, I didn't want the laddies ti ken aboot it, lest they\nmight call us \"Hamlet,\" mevvies, or \"clownie,\" or sic like, an' my\nmother divvent like play-actin'; it was she as made my feythor give it\nup, sayin' it wes nae bettor than a mugger's[17] life, elwis wanderin'\nfrae one place tiv anuther, an' nae brass iv it at aal.'\n\nThere was no time for further talk, for the train was waiting, and,\narriving at our destination, I found my companion so tired that it was\nall he could do to walk home.\n\nThe minister and I put our heads together after this, and collected\nenough money to send our little friend down to a seaside home for a\nfew weeks.\n\nOn Saturday night, however, a message came from the doctor that he was\nrapidly sinking. His mother and brother were both out, as it happened,\nbut the minister and I arrived just in time to bid farewell to the\npoor little 'Caleb Jay.'\n\nAs we proceeded silently homeward, an idea came into my head.\n\n'In an age of public testimonials and memorials,' I said, 'humble\nself-sacrifice goes unrewarded. Our little friend ought to have a\nstatue at the least; but, of course, it is no good doing anything.\nYou, therefore, should bring him into your sermon to-morrow evening,\nand give a few people a hint of it beforehand.'\n\nThe idea seemed to strike my companion, and he said he would gladly do\nso.\n\nI had not seen Tom, but as I walked to my lodgings I passed him\nstanding at the street corner amidst a knot of companions.\n\nI heard one of them mention the 'Caleb Jay,' and I stayed my steps a\nmoment to hear the reply.\n\n'Ay,' said Tom, 'he was a plucky little beggor iv his way, an' useful\ntae, an' I was often sorry for him, _he wes sae tarr'ble ugly_! But,\nho-way, I's plenty brass on me, and I'll treat ye aal tiv anuthor\nbeor!'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[14] It is said that at the time of the Napoleonic wars some French\nprisoners were detained in custody in the pit country not far from\nDurham City. It would appear that some intercourse between the\ninhabitants of the place and the foreigners sprang up, which resulted\nin the addition of one expressive phrase, at least, to the local\ndialect, that, namely, of 'Caleb Jay' for 'Quel obj\u00eat!' due to their\nstrange garb, probably, or tattered appearance. The phrase is now\nwholly obsolete, the writer believes, but it is said it was once\nactually in use.\n\n[15] Wood-pigeon.\n\n[16] The Northumbrian for 'encore.'\n\n[17] 'Mugger' = beggar; literally, one who sells mugs.\n\n\n\n\nGEORDIE ARMSTRONG, 'THE JESU-YTE'\n\n\nI.\n\nGeordie Armstrong, after a somewhat stormy past, had become a steady\nhewer, and a local preacher of some repute. Never a Sunday but he was\n'planned' to speak at this or that village, and frequently, as he\nfound opportunity, would 'pit in a bit overtime' at a 'class-meeting'\nor 'knife-an'-fork tea,' when the 'asking a blessing' or a returning\nof thanks might furnish occasion for a 'bit extemporizin'.' He was in\nreceipt of excellent wages down the pit; his worldly goods comprised,\nas he often proclaimed, a 'bonny, an' what's o' far mair importance, a\ngodly missus, three canny bairns, a cosy hoos, a fine little\nlibrairee, an' a tarr'ble fertile garden.'\n\nAs he thought upon the sum of his blessings one Saturday night when,\nafter having 'weshed hissel' an' had his tea,' he proceeded to light\nhis pipe, he felt he could only properly describe himself as a\n'varitable corn-u-cop-ye-ar ov happiness.'\n\nYet even then, even in that depth of felicity, an uneasy feeling would\nintrude: the memory of Scotty would float to the surface of his mind,\nand the thought of the 'parlous state' in which his old 'marrow'\n(mate) stood would ruffle its calm placidity.\n\nThis was 'the little rift within the lute'; here was the caterpillar\nin the 'corn-u-cop-ye-ar,' and, like the Apostle Paul of old, he was\nfain to accept his trial, in the spirit of true humility, as a\njudgment upon him for the failings of his past life.\n\nIt was not for lack of trying that Scotty refused to come to chapel;\nindeed, Geordie had so vexed him with his importunity that Scotty had\nrefused to work with him any longer, and was now employed further\n'in-by' with another mate. But for all that, Geordie felt certain that\nthe cause of failure lay with himself, due probably to his weakness in\nfaith, to lack of some essential or other, and that the blame of\nScotty's not being 'brought to the Lord' lay at his door.\n\nIt had been evident to him for some time that he must try other means,\nand, being a great reader, he had latterly come across, and been much\nattracted by, a remarkable account of some ancient methods of the\n'Jesu-ytes' in cases of this sort.\n\nSometimes the sinner in question had been unwittingly tempted into the\n'narrow path' by the gratification of his ambitions on some point or\nother, conversion resulting, as in the case of Tom Appleby--once a\nfire-hot Socialist, now a sleek Conservative--from unexpected\nprosperity.\n\nAt other times the same end had been attained by a crafty flattery.\nSuppose a man ambitious of eminence and State distinction: he might be\ndiverted from politics to the Church, and many were the instances\ngiven of bold and ambitious men who had done great work and attained\nhigh place as the servants of St. Peter.\n\nCould Scotty not be caught hold of in some such fashion? queried\nGeordie to himself, as he sat by his fireside that night, deeply\npondering the records he had just been studying. 'I divvn't think he's\nambitious, for he cares nowt aboot politics, an' he never even thought\no' stannin' for election on wor Parish Cooncil. Aal he cares for is\nhis beer, an' his quoits, an' bettin', an'--an'--his pansies; an' I\ndoot I cannot catch haud ov him in any one of those partic'lors, for\nit wouldn't be fittin' for us that's a local preacher to gan an' send\nhim a barril o' beer, or back him at a quoitin' match. But\nstay--there's the pansies; he's pansy champion, dootless; but then I's\nleek champion, an' if I can grow leeks, I's warn'd but I can grow\npansies, for flooers is easier grown nor vegetables.'\n\nGeordie puffed at his pipe vigorously for a minute or two in silence\nas he turned the matter over in his mind.\n\nA light kindled slowly in the back of his deep-set eye, a smile showed\nupon his lips, then he cuffed himself vigorously upon the knee.\n\n'Ho-way, gan on, Geordie!' he encouraged himself aloud; 'thoo's\nturnin' a fair Jesu-yte, I's warn'd!'\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nAs the day appointed for the annual meeting of the Flower Show drew\nnear, Geordie had been heard to drop hints of the 'wonnerfu' new\nspecie' of pansies he had become possessed of--'seedlin's' he had\nobtained 'doon the south-country way,' and it was not long before the\nrumour reached the ears of Scotty.\n\nNothing could exceed the contempt of the latter when he heard of\nGeordie's trying to grow pansies--'him that's just a vegetable man, a\ntormut (turnip) grower, a sort o' ha'penny farmer,' and as for\nanything good in the way of seedlings coming out of the south-country,\nit was just 'bang ridi'klous, for a' folk kenned that a' the best\ngrowers lived in auld Scotland.'\n\nBy-and-by some mischievous individual told Scotty that Geordie was\n'full' set upon being pansy champion, and was so cock-sure about it\nthat he was willing to back himself to win.\n\nScotty was so annoyed at this that the next time he came across\nGeordie he could not refrain from jeering at his attempt at pansy\ngrowing. 'Wey, it'll be as muckle as ye can do to tell a pansy frae a\nvi'let!' he cried.\n\nGeordie looked at him seriously from under his bushy eyebrows as he\nreplied, 'I's gannin' to show--an' I's gannin' to win--_wi' pansies,\nnot vi'lets_.'\n\n'Will ye back yorsel', then?' retorted his opponent sneeringly.\n\n'Well, ye knaa,' replied the other slowly, with evident embarrassment,\n'I's not a bettin' man, but if thoo thinks I's not in earnest, I's\nwillin' to gie a proof that I is. What d'ye say to yor takin'--if ye\nbeat us, that is--anythin' oot o' my hoos thoo has a fancy for;\nan'--an'--if I beat thoo, wey, aal I axes is that thoo should come to\nchapel--noo an' again, ye knaa--ov an evenin',' he hastily added, as\nhis companion's face assumed a look of infinite scorn.\n\n'Ha' ye got that auld double-barrelled shot-gun yet?' queried Scotty,\nafter a pause in which he had arrived at the conclusion that the odds\nwere 'aboot a thoosand to one' in his favour.\n\n'Yes,' replied Geordie. 'I still have her; she's there hangin' up\nabove the mantelshelf.'\n\n'Well, I'll tak' up wi' yor proposal,' was Scotty's reply.\n\n'Shake hands on't, then,' said Geordie slowly, unsuccessfully\nendeavouring to instil an apprehensive tremor into his voice.\n\nHis companion shook hands carelessly, and swung away whistling\nbarefacedly, 'And it's up wi' the bonnets o' Bonnie Dundee.'\n\nGeordie, on his part, walked away swiftly homewards, fearing lest his\nexultation might betray itself too openly. 'Wow!' he thought to\nhimself, 'but I's fair a-feard o' mysel'. I's growin' intiv a proper\nJesu-yte!'\n\nThe morning of the show-day came, and Geordie, having finished packing\nhis exhibits with extraordinary care, had just returned with the small\ncart the grocer had lent him to convey his treasures to the\nshow-field, about a mile and a half distant, when up came Maggie,\nScotty's wife, who, notwithstanding the little difference between\ntheir respective men, had always kept up her friendship with Geordie's\nwife. Her arms bore a large green case, tied round with a many-knotted\ncord. This she hastily set down beside the cart, then turned\nbreathlessly to Geordie, who, with his son, was just about to drive\noff.\n\n'Eh noo, canny man,' she cried, as she wiped her hot face with the\ntail of her gown, 'do us a favour. Will thoo carry my man's pansy-case\nup to the show wi' yors? Wor Jimmy was to have taken it up first thing\nthis mornin', but he went aff for his school treat an' left it--an' my\nman's awa playin' hissel' at quoits--an' he'll aboot kill Jimmy when\nhe gans up to the show an' finds his pansies isn't there.'\n\nGeordie willingly acceded, and the green case was carefully deposited\nalongside of his own at the bottom of the cart.\n\nHis nine-year-old son squatted on the seat opposite, his legs up to\nhis chin, so as to be out of the way as much as possible in the\ncrowded cart. The pony started off gallantly enough, and all went well\ntill within about two or three hundred yards of the field. At that\npoint, however, the pony suddenly shied at some stray paper on the\nroad, and Tommy fell with a crash upon the green case below.\n\n'Eh, Tommy, lad!' cried his father in dismay; 'what hast thoo done?\nWow! but thoo's gan an' smashed Scotty's case right thro' an' thro'!'\n\nHis succeeding feeling was one of joy; for, the accident having\nirreparably damaged a third at least of his rival's pansies, it was\nevident that Scotty was now 'catched,' and Geordie, with an inward\nacknowledgment to Providence, saw, as in a vision, Scotty sitting\ndevoutly 'under' himself in chapel.\n\nA few moments later, however, doubt and dismay entered his soul. What\nif Scotty should say Tommy had done it 'o' purpose'--at his\ninstigation? Further reflection convinced him that this was exactly\nwhat Scotty would say, and doubtless there would be some folk unkind\nenough to back him up in it.\n\nScotty would likelies claim the gun. Well, he'd not mind parting with\nthat, but he could not give up the prospect of saving Scotty's soul\nalive without a groan.\n\n'Eh, Tommy, lad! Eh, Tommy! But thoo divvn't knaa what thoo's done;\nthoo's put us in a fine quandary,' he murmured, gazing sadly now at\nTommy, who was rubbing his knee ruefully, and again at the splintered\ncase. The problem was a 'puzzlor;' even a Jesu-yte might have found\nsolution difficult; for Scotty, he knew, would not believe him if he\ntold the simple story of the accident, and winning the prize would be\nuseless in the face of Scotty's insinuations of foul play.\n\nThe only way out of the difficulty, he determined sadly, was to\nexhibit his own pansies under Scotty's name, and withdraw from the\ncontest himself. The contents of the two cases were sufficiently alike\nfor his purpose, though his own were superior in size and depth of\ncolour. It was a 'sair trial,' for his pansies were bound to win; but\nhis character as an honest, religious man was at stake, and Scotty's\ntriumph would be easier to endure than his sneers, if defeated, at a\n'chap who caa's hissel' releegious, an' swindles ye like a Jew\npedlar.'\n\nWith a groan he undid the label, and tied it on to his own beloved\nspecimens, casting aside, as a temptation of the evil one, a\ndisturbing suggestion that he was guilty of deception in passing off\nhis own as Scotty's pansies.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe judges had been round, and Scotty's pansies easily gained the\nplace of pride; pansies so perfectly developed, so dark and deep in\ncolour, had never been shown before.\n\nA crowd of admirers stood round. Scotty came lurching up, having\nevidently held a preliminary carouse in certain expectation of the\nchampionship, and, with a careless glance at his exhibits and the red\ncard attached, cried triumphantly:\n\n'Ay! an' whaur's that Geordie body noo, wi' his brags an' a'? Wey, I'm\ntauld he daurna even exhibit his ain puir specimens by the side o'\nmine! Look at thae pansies, an' think o' him wi' his yaller sheep's\ntormuts tryin' to vie wi' me that's the auld established pansy\nchampion! Ay, I'm that ower an' ower again; an' what's mair, I've win\nhis gun. Wey, I'll gang an' fetch her awa at aince!'\n\nSo boasting, the proud champion reeled off in triumph, inadvertently\nknocking up against a silent looker-on, who was standing in melancholy\nguise against a tent-pole some little distance away.\n\nOne morning, a day or so after the flower-show, it chanced that Tommy\nwas late for school, and, rounding a corner hurriedly, ran up against\na big boy, who was sporting a pansy in his buttonhole. The big boy,\nwho was Scotty's son, immediately proceeded to cuff him for his\ncarelessness, and Tommy retorted by \"calling\"[18] his opponent and his\nfamily connections with a ready profuseness.\n\n'Wey, even that pansy thoo's sportin' divvn't belong thoo, nor thy\nfeythor nowther, it's my dad's growin'; he showed his ain pansies as\nScotty's, 'cos Scotty's happened an accident i' the cart. Feythor took\nthem up for yor mither, 'cos thoo had forgottened them, an' to save\nthoo a strappin'; an' feythor's pansy champion, and Scotty's nowt but\na beer-barril!'\n\n'Liar!' responded the other boy, with a punch of his fist.\n\n'Ax yor mither, then,' shouted Tommy, as he ducked and broke away from\nhis captor's clutch.\n\nA night or two after this encounter Geordie was surprised by a visit\nfrom Scotty.\n\n'Whatten a tale's this ye're spreadin' aboot o' yor showin' yoor\npansies as mine, I'd like to ken?' demanded the intruder wrathfully.\n\nGeordie looked up quietly from his book, and: 'I've spread no tales\naboot thoo or thy pansies,' he replied.\n\n'Weel, it's either thoo or that wee, impittent son o' yoors, Tommy.\nNoo, I've been axin' my missus aboot it, an' she says she did gie ye\nmy pansies to tak' up to the show wi' yoors; an' what I want to be at\nis what i' the deil's name ye did to them.'\n\nGeordie, in reply, exactly related what had occurred.\n\n'Then, wey didn't ye tell us aboot it?' demanded Scotty, still\ndissatisfied.\n\n'Because thoo has a tarr'ble sharp tongue i' thy mouth, an' I divvn't\nwant to be scandalized aboot the village as one who would sharp\nanother for the sake o' winnin' a floo'er prize.'\n\n'Hum!' ejaculated Scotty, 'it's an extraordinar' thing this! But hoo\ncan ye explain aboot the pansies, then? I'm pansy champion, an'\ntherefore thae pansies that win the prize mun ha' been mine, yet here\nye are sayin' that they were yoors.'\n\nGeordie got up from his seat, and, without immediately replying, went\ninto the room at the back, and came forth again bearing in his arms a\nshattered green case.\n\n'Dis thoo recognise this?' he asked quietly, as he set it down on the\ntable in front of his visitor.\n\n'Ay,' replied Scotty, after a minute inspection; 'it's mine dootless.\nBut what then?'\n\n'Wey, then, thoo has my case, an' my pansies inside ov it; an' here's\nyors still left i' their holes, just as they were on show-day.'\n\nScotty bent over the broken lid incredulously, lifted a faded specimen\nout, and regarded it contemptuously.\n\n'Na, na,' he asserted shortly, 'that's no my pansies; mine were\nchampions, an' these is weeny things. Na, na, there's been a bit queer\nplay about this. Maybe Tommy changed them frae the one case to the\nither.'\n\n'Tommy did nowt o' the sort,' retaliated Geordie quickly. 'Aal that\nwas done was to untie the label an' clagg (stick) it on to my case\ninstead o' yors.'\n\n'Weel, it's a dommed queer thing aaltegither,' replied Scotty, pushing\nhis cap from his brow, 'and beyont me; for I'm champion, nobody can\ndeny that, an' a proper professor at floo'er growin', an' ye're but an\nammytoor, d'ye see? An' it's just surprising to me that ye could e'er\nimagine ye could compete wi' me. But I divvn't wish to be ower hard on\nye, an' I'll e'en gie ye the benefit o' the doot, as the saying is;\nsae I'll just send ye back yoor gun--that is,' he continued slowly,\neyeing Geordie wistfully, 'if ye're wishfu' to ha' her back.'\n\n'Thoo can keep her,' replied Geordie, 'for it's nae use to me\nnowadays; but I would like--I would be tarr'ble pleased if thoo would\ncome----' Here he halted abruptly, on a sudden fear lest Scotty's\nsuspicions of some underhand play in regard to the pansies might be\nagain roused if he too openly requested him to come to chapel.\n\nThe other hesitated a little. 'Weel,' he said finally, 'it's a canny\nwee gun, an' I would gey like to keep her. An' as for chapel\ngangin'--for I suppose that's what ye're after--if ye divvn't blab\naboot us, wey, I'll just tak' a look in noo an' again.'\n\n'That's right, noo,' responded Geordie gratefully, and his deep-set\neyes glowed with a warmer light. 'Shake hands on't.'\n\nScotty shook hands without demur and swiftly departed, fearful lest\nGeordie might regret the arrangement.\n\nGeordie leant back in his chair and heaved a sigh of relief as he\noffered up a silent thanksgiving to Providence for having softened\nScotty's heart.\n\n'It's aal right noo,' he murmured. 'Wi' the help I've had from above\nI've catched him at the finish, an' chapel will do the rest.'\n\nThus for some time he reflected devoutly. Then of a sudden a smile\nbroke upon his lips and he clapped his hand vigorously upon his thigh.\n'By!' he exclaimed aloud, 'but I's a proper Jesu-yte efter aal!'\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[18] Abusing.\n\n\n\n\n'GEORDIE RIDE-THE-STANG'\n\n\n     The custom of 'riding the stang' is now obsolete, so that the date\n     of this story must be put back a number of years, though Mr.\n     Brockett,[19] writing in his glossary of Northumbrian words, in the\n     early part of this century, says, 'I have myself been witness to\n     processions of this kind. Offenders of this description are mounted\n     a-straddle on a long pole, or stang, supported upon the shoulders\n     of their companions. On this painful and fickle seat they are borne\n     about the neighbourhood backwards, attended by a swarm of children\n     huzzaing and throwing all manner of filth. It is considered a mark\n     of the highest reproach, and the person who has been thus treated\n     seldom recovers his character in the opinion of his neighbours.'\n     The method of divination by the puddings has been practised within\n     living memory, and even yet may be resorted to by way of a jest\n     upon occasion.\n\n     Since writing the above the author has come across in Mr. R.\n     Blakeborough's interesting book, 'Yorkshire Wit, Character and\n     Customs,' a different version of 'riding the stang,' to which he\n     is indebted for the first four lines of the 'furrinor's' song. In\n     a footnote Mr. Blakeborough adds that the 'stang' was ridden at\n     Thoralby, Wensleydale, as recently as October, 1896.\n\nThere was French blood in Geordie Robertson's wife, Mary, and it may\nperhaps have been owing to her origin that she was so eager for\nrevenge when she found herself deceived by her husband.\n\nShe had begun to suspect him of infidelity even before a neighbour had\ngiven her a hint that he had a 'fancy' wife away in Bridgeton, for her\nhusband brought home less and less with his 'pack' after his weekly\ntramp was over, and when she asked for explanations he 'called' her\nwith most abusive virulence.\n\nFor her further satisfaction she determined to make trial, now that\nthe pig was to be killed, of the ancient method of divination\npractised by the pit-wives, of which the following is the ritual:\n\nWhen the animal has been slaughtered and the blood duly made into\npuddings, these puddings are 'set away' to boil by the inquirer of the\noracle. Then, just before they are taken out of the 'pot,' the\nofficiating priestess must say aloud that she 'gives them' to him who\nis suspected of infidelity. Should the puddings emerge whole, gossip\nis dumfoundered; should they come forth broken, the man is proved to\nhave a 'fancy' wife.\n\nMary, indeed, found she could scarcely control her impatience when the\nfatal day came, and, the pig duly slaughtered, she 'gave' the puddings\nto her husband, Geordie.\n\nShe waited another minute to give the spell the lawful grace, then\nwith a trembling hand plucked forth the puddings.\n\n'Ah--ah!' she gasped, tremulous but triumphant, 'then it is so; he has\na fancy wife,' and her quick brain fell to pondering a plan for\ndiscovery and revenge.\n\nThe first thing to be done was to lure her 'man' into a false security\nby subtle commiseration with him on the 'slackness' of trade, as also\nby a wonderful submissiveness, even to the extent of going without\nbacon for breakfast in order that she might save enough to buy him\ntobacco. Now this form of procedure with a selfish man usually\nproduces excellent results. If he is sufficiently selfish, he does not\nstay to inquire why or wherefore, but takes all he can, as a cat her\ncream, without delay, without a thank you--nay, unlike tabby, without\neven an inward purr.\n\nIt was so with Geordie, who began incontinently to brag about his\n'missus's trainin',' and how he was 'champion' at 'fettlin' a wife's\nnonsense,' and, swollen with self-satisfaction, began now to treat her\nwith a sort of contemptuous toleration.\n\nA fortnight or so after Mary had made trial of her puddings, Geordie\ncarelessly mentioned the fact that he would be away over the\n'week-end' in and about Bridgeton, and demanded some 'brass' from her\nfor the replenishing of his 'pack.'\n\nOutwardly submissive, she gave him five shillings from her small\nsavings, but inwardly determined that it was the last sum of money he\nshould have from her.\n\nOn Friday night Geordie departed gaily for Bridgeton, and on the\nSaturday afternoon Mary followed suit, clad in a thick cloak which\nmight serve her for a disguise upon occasion.\n\nWhen she arrived there, the main street and market were thickly\ncrowded with a swarm of holiday-making pitmen, country folk, farmers\nand their wives, hinds, male and female, for it was the date of the\nannual fair and hiring, of 'the general assembly' of tramps, pedlars,\n'tinklers' (tinkers), show-men, and the like, whose business it is to\nattend such gatherings.\n\nIn such a crowd Mary felt safe from recognition, but it might be a\ndifficult task to discover her 'man' in all that company.\n\nAn hour or two passed, and she had been up and down the long street\ntwice without success; but just as she was turning into a cheap\nrefreshment-room, with 'Tea and coffy always redy' written in a\nslovenly hand upon a dirty placard in the window, she caught the sound\nof a voice raised in semi-drunken irritation close behind her which\ncaused her to turn her head hurriedly in that direction.\n\nYes, there he was without doubt, her Geordie, heavy with liquor\nalready--not 'mortal' yet, but quarrelsome. Aha! and that was the\n'fancy' wife, of course, who had him fast by the arm--a blousy,\nred-faced, fat-armed, big chested woman, who was evidently trying to\npersuade her charge to come home much against his inclination. At\nsight of her rival--immodest, gross, overpowering--Mary shrank back\naghast, and it was only after a struggle with herself and a forcible\niteration of her wrongs, that she could persuade herself slowly and\nreluctantly to follow the couple in front of her.\n\n'Ho-way!' shouted Geordie; 'there's Tom Turnbull ower by there tryin'\nti lift weights an' show 's strength. Wey, but Tom cannet lift\nweights, he's nowt but a wee bit beggor. Tom, thoo beggor!' he\nchallenged across the intervening throng of heads, 'thoo cannet lift\nweights; wey, Aa'l lift weights wi' thoo for a bottle o' whisky!'\n\n'Ho-way, then, thoo aad fightin'-cock! but Aa give thoo fair warnin'\nAa can beat thoo, for Aa's champion.'\n\nAt this, the 'fancy' wife seized her 'man' firmly by the sleeve,\nfearing doubtless lest, in his then 'muzzy' condition, Geordie would\nwaste the scanty remainder of his brass upon a vain endeavour, and, by\nway of effectually dissuading him, indiscreetly praised his rival's\nprowess.\n\n'No, no, Geordie, my man, come this way, an' give us my fairin'; wey,\nthere's a mort o' things ti see yet; there's the shuttin'-gall'ry, an'\nthe twa-headed cat, an' the giant, an' the fat woman, an' aal--ho-way.\nAy, an' Geordie, hinny, Tom Turnbull's tarr'ble clivvor at liftin'\nthey handles things an' drivin' the bolt up the stick wi' the hammer,\nan' Aa's warn'd but he'll bang thoo at that game.'\n\n'Tom Turnbull!--that haalf-grown, bandy-legged beggor ov a bit tailor\nov a man bang me? Gox! but Aa'll larn him a lesson. Aa'll cut his\ncomb, Aa's warn'd!' and Geordie forthwith, murmuring maledictions,\nthrust blindly through the crowd till he reached the spot where his\nrival stood, the centre of an admiring circle of friends.\n\n'Noo,' cried Geordie, turning up his wrist-cuffs, 'Aa'll show thoo hoo\nthe thing's done when it's done proper. Wey, this bolt 'll hit the\nbeam at the top when Aa gie the stump a bat!' and without more\nado--amidst the jeers of some, and the encouragement of a few false\nfriends--he seized the hammer, swung it round his head, and brought it\ndown some feet wide of the mark--smash upon the cobble-stones of the\nmarket-place. 'That's done the business!' cried Geordie triumphantly,\nconscious from the stinging of his hands that he had 'gi'en it a\nchampion bat,' and certain that he had driven up the bolt some feet\nabove his rival's mark.\n\nThrough the roar of laughter, which Geordie complacently accepted as\nthe proper accompaniment of Tom's defeat, a voice pierced suddenly\nwith a shrill note as of a fife.\n\n'Thoo great clumsy lubbert, see what thoo's done! Thoo's broke the\nhammer's head off! That's half a crown, my man, for the hammer, an' a\npenny for the shot; an' if thoo disn't hand it ower, I'll call the\npollis, for it's fair takin' the livin' oot ov a poor weeda woman's\nmouth to break her hammer thet fashion!' and a thin-faced female, with\na red-lined nose, sharp cheekbones, and watery eyes, held up two\nskinny fists in anger against him.\n\n'Gan on, woman, gan on!' retorted Geordie indignantly; 'wey, it's thoo\nsh'd pay us, or gie us a cigyar, or a cokienut; for that bat o' mine\nhit the bull's-eye, Aa's warned.'\n\nThe shrill-voiced female renewed her protestations, and some of the\nbystanders joined in with additional explanations; but Geordie would\nhave none of them. 'Gan on,' he retorted; 'gan awa home, an' wesh yor\nfeyce! Wey, the hammer's as rotten as pash, for Aa brought her fair\ndoon like a pick reet on top o' the stump. What else should maa hands\nbe tinglin' for?'\n\nThe proprietress of the hammer, however, continued to assail Geordie\nwith abuse, while at the same time the 'fancy' wife upon his other\nside endeavoured to drag him away, so that it need not surprise us if\nGeordie suddenly lost his temper, and turned heavily upon his\ntormentors.\n\nHe shook off the one, and flung down a shilling in payment of the\nsupposed damage to the hammer; the other--the 'fancy' wife--he pushed\nroughly from him, with the result that she lost her balance, and fell\nwhimpering in the mud, while Geordie lurched off to the nearest\nhostelry, muttering indignantly as he went, 'Aa's been fair mucked\nower wi' women the day--just fair mucked ower.'\n\nA swift inspiration gleamed in Mary's mind. For the punishment of\nGeordie she had already made due preparation, and now, if she could\nonly persuade the 'fancy' wife, her triumph would be complete.\n\nShe noticed the woman angrily brushing the muck off her 'feast gown,'\nand at once made her way up to her and touched her gently on the arm.\n'Ay,' she said quietly, as the other looked up with red and testy\nface, 'an' it's the same way he treats me;' holding her left hand\nloosely so that her marriage-ring was plainly conspicuous.\n\n'So he has a lawful wife, an' yore her?' And the speaker gave a\nsuspicious, all-embracing stare. 'Well,' she continued slowly,\njealousy slipping, like some slow portcullis, from her eyes, 'he's had\na change, has my lord! Forst, it was a thin lass like yorsel', an' noo\nit's a plump one like me. Ay, he's greedy, is Geordie; he winna be\ncontent wi' the one, like Jack Spratt, but wants both.'\n\n'Ay, lass,' replied the other woman quietly, 'yore right: he's greedy\nan' selfish. That's the sort--a selfish good-like nowt, that lives on\nwomen, makes them keep him through life just as one does a babby; an'\nhe's treated the pair ov us shameful--just shameful; but, hinny, I've\na plan for a bit payment for him, an' if ye come aside a bit wi' me,\nI'll tell ye o't.' And she laid an appealing hand upon the other's,\nand affected with the disengaged one to brush the remaining dirt from\nthe 'fancy' wife's skirt.\n\n'Well, what is't?' said the latter, suffering herself to be led\nthrough the crowd to a quiet corner.\n\nMary at once proceeded, but with a cautious self-effacement, to detail\nher schemes for Geordie's discomfiture. 'It will not hurt him,' she\nprotested, as her rival still sat silent, 'but it will pay him a bit\nfor the way he's treated us'--here Mary's hand again occupied itself\nwith the soiled dress--'and it will give ye the laugh over him. I've\ndone wiv him mysel; I'm awa to France to-night or morning--that's\nwhere Grandfeyther was bred; he came to these parts selling onions at\nfirst, an' finally settled doon here to 'scape the soldierin'. An'\nI've money enough to pay the expenses,' she continued; 'an' for\nsuthin' to eat an' drink an' the ticket.'\n\nThe 'fancy' wife looked at her somewhat hardly, suspicion rising to\nthe surface of her eye. 'An' sae yore off to France, are ye?' she\nqueried; 'ay, an' yore tired ov him? Well, mevvies he would say as he\nwas tired o' thoo; but I've a grudge again' him for the way he's treat\nus to-day, spendin' aal my brass ower himsel' an' clartin' my gown an'\nall, an' I'll pay him for't, I's warn'd.' And her face darkened\nvindictively.\n\n'That's right,' replied Mary swiftly. 'And now for the plan. Here's\nmoney for you to treat him with. Get him awa oot o' the public before\nhe's had too much, an' bring him along wi' you by the last train from\nBridgeton, an' I'll meet you wi' the \"stang\" ready for him, an' the\nlads, an' the music, an' all. Oh, but it'll all gan fine, ye-es,\nye-es!'\n\nSo Mary, having handed over all that she could spare to her rival,\ndeparted for the railway-station with a view to catching an earlier\ntrain, and revising her preparations at the other end.\n\nHer elation was complete. The only possible flaw in her subtly-devised\nplan lay in the moods of the 'fancy' wife. If Geordie continued to\ntreat her roughly--and as he had now evidently settled down to the\ndrink, he was almost certain to do so--she would be true to the\narrangement; if not, she might relent, and keep Geordie from his house\nthat night.\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nThe train was overdue, and Mary waited with a feverish expectation at\nthe station's descent amidst a small crowd of young men and boys to\nwhom the idea of making anyone 'ride the stang' had appealed with an\nirresistible sense of novelty.\n\nThe custom, indeed, was obsolete, but all had heard of it, and the\nolder men had often witnessed it in their youth, and some of them had\ncollected near the station to criticise and superintend the\nperformance.\n\nThe 'stang' itself was in readiness--having been lent to Mary on this\noccasion by the schoolmaster and antiquary of the village, whose\nfather had been, as constable, its custodian in the old days.\n\nAnd now at last the rumble of an approaching train was audible, and\nthe group at once assumed an alert and eager air.\n\nA crowd of tired excursionists slowly descended the narrow path from\nthe station, men and women together, but there was no sign of Geordie\nor the 'fancy' wife. Mary's heart grew heavy within her; after all,\nthen, she would have to depart without that sweet morsel--her revenge.\nThe 'fancy' wife must have relented and informed Geordie of her plans.\n\n'Ho-way,' cried a man in her ear, 'he's not comin' back the night;\nthoo's gi'en him a gliff mevvies.'\n\n'Stay!' cried she swiftly, detaining him by the arm. 'What's that,\nthen?' she whispered triumphantly, as at the tail of the procession of\npleasure-seekers a couple became visible descending fitfully with\nwayward lurches.\n\n'See there!' continued Mary eagerly, 'it's Geordie an' his \"fancy\"\nwife with him. Catch tight haud of him, an' mount him, an' carry him\nthrough the length o' the village on the \"stang\"--right to his very\ndoor; he canna get in though, for I've the key i' my pocket,' and Mary\nlaughed with an inward glee.\n\nDown came the couple slowly, Geordie abusing his companion, as he\nlurched against her heavily, for not progressing with more even\nfootsteps, the woman saying nothing, but tightly gripping him by the\narm, in order, doubtless, to keep him upright and also to prevent any\nattempt at escape.\n\nThe wicket-gate swung open, Geordie lurched through, and in a moment\nhe was seized, hoisted into the air, a rough pole thrust through his\nlegs, and the triumphal march began to the tune of a penny whistle,\nplayed by the local champion, a carter to trade, and a number of Jews'\nharps and toy trumpets with which a herd of small boys poured forth\ndiscordant revel.\n\n'Gox! Aa's fallen intiv a sorcus (circus),' cried Geordie, in the\nfirst moment of astonishment, then, 'Leave haud ov us, ye great\nflamin' Irish---- What the devil's this Aa's astride o'?' adding with\nsolemn dignity, 'Yore makin' a tarr'ble mistake. Aa's not Blondin, ti\nwalk on a tight rope for ye; Aa's Geordie Campbell o' the Raa (Row),\nwhe lives i' the hoos wi' the brass handle tiv't.'\n\n'Ay, ay, we knaa thoo!' cried the chorus of urchins; 'thoo's Geordie,\ndrunken Geordie, Geordie wi' the \"fancy\" wife. Geordie, Geordie\nride-the-stang! Eh, what a clivvor rider is Geordie! Thoo's a proper\njockey, Geordie, an' thoo'll mevvies ride the winner i' \"the\nPlate\"[20] before thoo's finished wiv it.'\n\nThis idea tickled the carriers of the 'stang,' and Geordie's bearers\nwere forthwith transformed into thorough-breds with a tendency to\nbuck-jump. Hither and thither he rolled, dazed and bewildered,\nhelplessly clutching at the heads of those near him for support, but\nhis arms were seized, his legs tightly crossed below the 'stang,' and\nhe swung from side to side, while the rougher boys, chanting rude\ndoggerel over him, gathered and threw mud upon him. A trombone and a\n'sarpint' here joined the noisy crowd, and to the varied strains of\n'The Campbells are coming,' 'Weel may the keel row,' and 'Canny Dog\nCappie,' Geordie was borne in triumph up the Row.\n\nA 'furrinor' (foreigner, stranger) here joined the medley, a 'South\ncountryman' from Yorkshire, who, chancing to have lately come to the\nvillage after some private experience of his own in stang-riding in\none of the remoter Yorkshire vales, at once placed his services at the\ncrowd's disposal.\n\nMarching at the head of the procession, like the drum-major of a band,\nand beating together two saucepan-lids, he led the anthem.\n\nBetween the 'cling, cling, cling' of the lids his voice rose lustily:\n\n    'Ah tinkle, ah tinkle, ah tinkle tang,\n    It's not foor your part nor mah part\n    'At ah ride the stang,\n    But foor you, Geordie Robertson, who his wife did bang.'\n\nScarcely had he ended when the shrill trebles of the boys took up the\nwondrous tale, and in antiphony chanted their response:\n\n    'Up wiv a bump and down wiv a bang\n    Gans Geordie, Geordie ride-the-stang;\n    A bump an' a bang for his deed sae wrang,\n    An' we'll larn him a lesson for ever sae lang.'\n\nThen, to the full chorus, with complete orchestra of flute and fife,\ntrombone and triangle, tin whistle and 'sarpint,' brass pot, pan, and\nsaucepan-lids, the entire procession moved slowly onward.\n\nMary's eyes burned bright with exultation as she marched along in the\ncrowd, not letting a single incident of the spectacle escape her\nnotice, and as she watched she too joined in the chorus of 'Geordie,\nGeordie ride-the-stang' without restraint.\n\nThe sound of the familiar voice roused the victim from the stupor into\nwhich the hustling, peltings, and shoutings had reduced him.\n\n'Thoo ----,' he yelled, as he caught sight of her; 'then it's thoo\nthat's at the bottom o' this? By, but if Aa wes free Aa'd----' But a\nstalk of cabbage thrown at a venture by a small boy on the skirts of\nthe crowd here impeded his utterance, and Mary's voice rang out\nperhaps more triumphantly than before.\n\nThe 'fancy' wife, meanwhile, who had at first discreetly retired from\npublic view and looked on at the procession from a distance, had\nshortly after joined the noisy throng, moved thereto by a sense of\nisolation, and also by a certain smouldering compunction. She looked\naround her irresolutely; she felt she had acted precipitately;\ncertainly she was not deriving any advantage from the proceedings,\nwhereas her rival was the leader of the revelry, dancing, clapping her\nhands, and carrying on like a 'Maypole lass.'\n\nAt this moment Mary inadvertently brushed against her, and in a moment\nthe 'fancy' wife turned upon her like a spitfire. Clenching her fists\nand shouting vituperations, she tried to seize her by the hair. Foiled\nin this by an adroit swerve of Mary's under the 'stang,' she turned\nher fury upon Geordie's bearers, and with such success that to defend\nthemselves they were forced to lower the pole to the ground. 'Noo,\nGeordie,' cried she, promptly thrusting the wooden weapon into his\nhands, 'mak' play wiv it, my man, ho-way,' and Geordie, realizing he\nwas now free, lunged furiously in all directions, and scattered the\ncrowd like chaff before him.\n\nSteered by his 'fancy' wife, a way grew clear about them, and Geordie\nmarched slowly, unsteadily forward, bearing the 'stang' like a\nbattering-ram straight in front of him, down the remaining length of\nthe Row, accompanied at a respectful distance by a rabble of the\nsmaller urchins.\n\nRight on past his house he went, out into the darkness beyond, and\nover the bridge at the end of the village, still tightly grasping the\n'stang' himself, and tightly grasped in his turn by his 'fancy' wife.\n\nThe last train to Oldcastle happened to pass above the bridge at that\nmoment, and a head leant far out through a carriage window.\n\n'Ay!' a clear voice sounded, with a touch of derision on the night\nair--'Ay! that's right, haud him tight, for he wants it badlies.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTES:\n\n[19] Mr. Brockett died in 1842.\n\n[20] The Northumberland Plate.\n\n\n\n\nYANKEE BILL AND QUAKER JOHN\n\n\nQuaker John was one of the best known figures in the small seaport\ntown of Old Quay. Short of stature, heavy of tread, always quietly\nattired in a black suit, which varied not in cut from year to year;\nindeed, the same suit had once been known to do duty for three years\ntogether, till his wife one day, so 'twas said, handed them over to\nthe chimney-sweep in mistaken identity. You might have told that he\nwas of Puritan descent some yards away, but the 'letter of the law' in\nhim had been softened down by the kindly genius of the old-fashioned\nQuaker. A genial twinkle lay in hiding at the back of his steadfast\neye, and a smile was always 'at heel' beside his big and honest mouth.\n\nA broad and spectacled nose completed the portrait of one in whom the\nharmlessness as of a dove did not of necessity efface the wisdom of\nthe serpent. At least, so said Yankee Bill, who read character 'at\nsight'; but then, Bill was a disciple of that cynical logic which\nproclaims not only all priests to be humbugs, but all men immersed in\nbusiness who make pretensions to piety to be hypocrites or fools.\n\nHe had happened to pass along the street one 'fourth-day' morning as\nJohn came out of the meeting-house, and overheard him address a remark\nabout business to a Quaker friend at his side, and thereafter was\nmerciless in ridicule. 'John's patent incubator,' he styled the\nmeeting-house, 'for plot-hatching,' and pretended to be afraid of\ndoing business with him on Wednesday afternoons for fear of being\n'skinned.'\n\nBill was a waif from the seas who had somehow been thrown up at Old\nQuay a few years back, and having 'prospected around' and 'pegged out\na claim' for himself in the indiscriminate region of commission\nbusiness, life insurance, advertising agencies, secretaryships, and\nother nebulous formative processes, was now almost as well-known a\nfigure in the town as Quaker John himself.\n\nThe chief foundation in any abiding friendship is a certain diversity\nof temperament which those who wondered at the mutual liking that had\nsprung up between the retiring stockbroker's clerk and the worldly\nYankee had evidently overlooked. To John the American's audacity was a\nperpetual delight, tempered by occasional Puritan scruples as to\nwhether he was justified in associating with so hardened an\nunbeliever. To Bill Coody the Quaker's reposefulness and quiet\nself-sufficiency were both a sleeping-draught and irritant.\n\nNothing delighted him more than to get a rise out of John; but John\nwas hard to catch, and even when craftily inveigled into a theological\nargument, was extremely chary of entering into definite statements.\nEven when his position was most hotly assailed by the other, who made\nunsparing use of the _argumentum ad hominem_, reinforced by a store of\nmalicious anecdotes of religious 'professors' all the world over, John\nnever lost his temper, but mildly suggested that his antagonist was an\nAnarchist in disguise.\n\nJohn himself, though immersed in business which some of the 'plain\npeople' have been used to look askance at, lived after the simple\nfashion of the straiter sect.\n\nAfter his day's work at the office, where as head clerk much\nresponsibility lay on his shoulders, he would go straight home and\nemploy his leisure on fine days in his garden, and on wet days in his\nlibrary, for John was not only a book-collector, but also a reader.\n\nOne pipe of tobacco he allowed himself before going to bed on week\ndays and two on 'first-days,' and flavoured his tobacco with a chapter\nof 'George,' as he styled in affectionate intimacy his favourite\nauthor (Mr. Meredith) on week-days, but a portion of Barclay's\n'Apology' on 'first-day' evenings.\n\nOne evening John was sitting reading as usual, when the maid-servant\ncame in to say that Mr. Coody wished to have a few words with him.\n'Very well,' replied her master, laying aside 'George' with a sigh,\nand wondering what business Bill might have on hand to come at such an\nuntimely hour.\n\nIn came his friend as unceremoniously as ever, and, sitting himself\ndown on the sofa, drew vigorously at his cheroot for a minute or two\nbefore entering upon the topic that had brought him thither.\n\n'Look here, John,' he exclaimed all at once, 'you're a confidential\ncuss, I guess, and I've got a scheme on hand that will \"scoop the\nboodle\" if properly carried out; and what I want to know is, whether\nyour people will take a hand in it or no. It's a certain thing, and\nwill go ahead like a runaway buggy anyway; but the less friction the\nbetter, so that if your people will grease the wheels a bit, so much\nthe better for them and all consarned.'\n\n'Tell me precisely what it is,' replied John cautiously, 'then I may\nbe able to offer an opinion; but, of course, I can't say off-hand\nwhether the firm will entertain the idea or not.'\n\n'Waal,' replied Bill, 'I guess you're the firm pretty often, for your\nbosses are generally away huntin' or shootin' or foolin' around\nsomewhere; anyway, your advice is generally listened to, I guess.\nWaal, to come to business. I'm fixin' up a new store on the most\nmodern principles. I sell everything cheaper than anybody else\nanywhere in this little country of yours; any bloomin' thing that's\nasked for, why, it's there, delivered free to any part of the United\nKingdom. Everybody comes along--Noah's Ark on a wet day ain't in it\nfor the pushin' there'll be at our doors once we get opened out--and,\nanother thing, everybody gets made into an automatic shareholder; for\nprofits have to lie till they reach \u00a35, when each man, woman, and\nchild gets a share given them, will they, nill they--and you bet,\nJohn, they will. I tell you, the thing's fixed up, and is goin' to\ngive Old Quay shocks. Why, I'm buyin' up here and there bankrupt\nstocks enough to bust the place with--pianners, hardware, bicycles,\nrose-trees, fam'ly Bibles, rat-traps--every taste will be suited, for\nI tell you cosmopolitanism ain't in it with Bill Coody. I tell you\nI'll be in a position to bust every single bicycle dealer in this\nlittle one-hoss place; every pianner dealer can shut up shop when I\nget started. Why, there won't be a pitman in Northumberland who hasn't\ngot a demi-grand Eureka B. C. piano in his house in another three\nweeks' time, and every colliery village will have its Bayreuth\nFestival with \"Canny Dog Cappie\" and \"Weel may the keel row\" tinklin'\naway down each row.'\n\n'But think of the poor shopkeeper!' John interrupted, aghast at this\nslaughter of the innocents.\n\n'Now, John,' expostulated Bill, as one who reproves a child for\nfoolishness, 'it's not \"first-day,\" and you ain't \"in meeting,\" so\nstick to business, if _you_ please. Waal, the thing's got to go, as\nI'm sayin', and the only question is, are your people goin' to join in\nor no? If not, I bust their little donkey go-cart of Supply Stores\nwhich they set up a few years back in South Street \"for the mutual\nencouragement of thrift and the supply of the best articles at\nfirst-hand cost\" as the prospectus says, combinin' philanthropy and\nfive per cent, plus their commission on floatin' the shop. Now, I know\nhow much they have in it, your bosses. J. B. has 10,000 shares, and\nyoung T. he has 5,000 out of a total of 30,000, so they're the largest\nshareholders in the concern, but Bill Coody has shares in it, too,\nJohn, he or his nominees. Likely you've noticed the shares have been\njumpin' up a bit lately and been wonderin' what the jooce was up, eh?'\n\n'Yes,' responded John quietly, endeavouring to conceal any disquietude\nhe might feel; 'yes, I've noticed that.'\n\n'Waal, we've got enough to bust their shop up pretty well, and if your\npeople don't come into my showyard I'll give their shares away with a\npound of tea,' and here he pulled out a handful of certificates from\nhis trousers' pocket and flourished them in John's face, which was\ngradually growing longer as the other unrolled his arguments.\n\n'But how did you get the necessary capital?' John inquired after a\npause, professional curiosity piqued at this unexpected revelation of\nmeans.\n\n'Waal,' replied the American, as he carelessly lit another cheroot,\nexpectorating with relish into John's carefully-trimmed fire, 'I'll\ntell you straight out, for I'm one of them that goes straight to the\npoint--fibbin' ain't in it with truthfulness, and bluffin's no good\nwhen the cards are on the table. Waal, I bank with the Old Bank here,\nand decent enough people they are, too, but a trifle slow, so no\nsooner did the Joint Stock Bank open out a new branch in Old Quay than\nin I go, and I says, \"Look here, boss, I want \u00a35,000 of the ready, and\nI'll bring you business,\" I says. Well, the boss rubs his hands in\nbutter, and he says, \"Sartinly, sartinly, Mr. Coody, we know your name\nwell, sir; most happy to oblige, I'm sure, and much obliged if you\ncould introduce us to a few of your friends,\" so after a bit more\npalaver and a deposit of some shares the deal's done. Waal, down the\nstreet goes Bill Coody, and into the parlour of the Old Bank, and says\nto the partners straight out: \"Now, look here, gentlemen, there's no\nbeatin' about the bush with me, and no frivolity in matters of\nbusiness, and what I want is \u00a35,000 straight down, which is the figure\nI've just been offered by the new Joint Stock Bank over the way. Now I\nlike your style,\" I says, \"and I should be sorry to leave you; but\nsentiment's not my style of doin' business, so there you have it.\"\nWaal, the old gentleman looked at me over his spectacles, same way as\nyou do, John, and under his spectacles also, and offers me a pinch of\nsnuff, while he and his partner waggle their heads together in a\nfar-off corner of the room. Waal, after a bit more palaver and a\nlittle \"pi\" jaw thrown in gratis about the evils of speculatin', and a\nhope that a strange bank will not interfere with mutual friendly\nbusiness relations, that deal's done, and Bill Coody has \u00a310,000 to\ndraw upon by feedin'-time that morning.\n\n'Waal, John, I think you'll have the hang of it now, and will be able\nto advise your bosses as to what's best for them and the community,\ntoo, at large, and I want an answer--a regular business-like\ndocument--signed, sealed, and delivered, by this time to-morrow night,\nfor there's a shipload of my goods in already and lyin' at the quay,\nand I can't let the thing dry-rot while two thickheads worry the\nsituation out and try to tinker up a mind between them. So fix it up\nfor them, John, yourself. Ta-ta; I must be off. There's a chap waitin'\nfor me at the club on business.' And rising as he spoke, he went as\nunceremoniously as he came, leaving a trail of rank tobacco that was\nas penetrating to John's nostrils as his communications had been to\nhis intellect.\n\nJohn lit his pipe again, which had gone out as he listened to Bill's\nscheme, and thought for a while how 'George' would have dealt with the\nsituation; how his penetrating intellect would have pierced through\nBill's armour-plating, and revealed the naked artificer within.\n\nAh! if 'George' had only been there for five minutes, several of the\nquestions that were troubling him might have received instant\nsolution. He could not feel certain how far Bill meant business with\nhis store. It was not all bluff, of course; but how much of it was\nbluff, how much business, he could not of himself determine.\n\nIt might be that he wanted to be bought off at a price, or be offered\na post upon the directorate, or was merely a 'bull' of the shares.\nHowever, one thing was certain: there must be no shilly-shallying.\nEither Bill must be squared or he must be defied.\n\nThat was the question for him to determine. No doubt, from a strictly\nbusiness point of view, the chief matter to be considered was which of\nthe two courses was likely to prove most beneficial to his principals;\nbut the thought of the poor shopkeepers was present in John's mind,\nand operated largely in influencing his mind in the direction of\ndefiance. There was poor old Mrs. S----, for example, who kept herself\nand two grandchildren on the proceeds of a small florist's business,\nonce her son-in-law's. What would happen to her if Bill were to flood\nthe town with rose-trees at a shilling the dozen?\n\nTo-morrow was Saturday, and Bill demanded an answer by the evening.\nThe next day being 'first-day,' he would have to satisfy his\nconscience--that 'still small voice' which, even in the silence of the\nmeeting, interrogated him severely on his dealings during the past\nweek, and permitted no subterfuge or evasive answer--and it was\nuseless to think he could do so by pleading that he was only a\nsubordinate, not an official, in this affair of the store. Well, so be\nit. It must be defiance, then--war to the knife--if Bill was in\nearnest; for to offer to put him on the directorate of the supply\nstores would merely mean setting up Bill's store under the old title.\n\nJohn sat late as he pondered over the situation. Suddenly one of the\nArticles of Association of the stores flamed within the chamber of his\nbrain, and a twinkle shone in his eye, as he reflected that it should\nenable him to mate Bill's cleverness at the very outset.\n\nBill had quoted from the prospectus, but he had evidently overlooked\nthe Articles of Association, and John chuckled to himself delightedly\nas he recalled Article 5.\n\nShortly after seven next morning John might have been observed taking\nthe air upon the quay, casting shrewd glances as he passed along. He\nhad some suspicions concerning the amount of value of Bill's\nconsignment of pianos, family Bibles, etc., and he thought he might\npossibly discover something for himself if he saw what vessels were\nlying at the quay.\n\nThere was a green-hulled brigantine from Norway lying alongside, but\nshe was full of battens and pit-props; a steam-collier lay next, but\nshe must simply be waiting there for stores or sailing orders. A tramp\ncame next, apparently from America, by the labels on some of her\npackages that the cranes were already swinging overhead.\n\nThis, then, must be Bill's consignment, for there was nothing else in\nthe river or at the quay that John could see that could possibly have\nanything on board for Bill or his stores.\n\nAs he stood there immersed in thought, a figure appeared on the deck\nabove him, and, leaning his arms on the taffrail, regarded the scene\nbelow him with a gloomy air. 'The skipper,' thought John, as he noted\nhis blue broadcloth and peaked cap, and on the spur of a sudden\ninspiration immediately accosted him.\n\n'Fine morning, captain. I happen to have heard a rumour to the effect\nthat you were wanting an offer for your cargo. If so, I might possibly\nget you an offer from a friend of mine--at a reasonable figure, of\ncourse.'\n\n'Waal,' replied the other slowly, 'I guess I'm ready for a deal, as\nthe consignees are bust up, and only 25 per cent. of the freight paid\nfor; but it's not a knock-out, I tell ye, for I've had a bid already\nfor the lot.'\n\n'Was it from a man they call Bill Coody, by any chance?' asked John,\nwith a fine carelessness.\n\n'Waal,' replied the skipper, as he turned his quid, 'his name's\nnothin' to me, so long as he has the ready. Mr. Cash is the gent I do\nbusiness with; but if my memory sarves me right, I think Bill Coody\nwas the name on his pasteboard.'\n\n'What precisely is the cargo?' queried John. 'Is it dry-store\ngoods--organs, pianos, and such like commodities?'\n\n'Ay, that's about what it is--all the sort o' fixin's that make a\nharmonious home for the retired commercial gent--organs, melodeons,\nbrick-a-bacs, articles of virtoo and amusement combined; and a fine\nvariety of wood goods besides. Waal, if you're for a deal you must be\nsharp about it, for I've to fix up with Mr. Coody by ten o'clock this\nmornin', and I leave again this afternoon, havin' just signed a fresh\ncharter party for a cargo of fireclay bricks. So name your figure,\nplank down the cash, and I'm ready to deal.'\n\n'Well, what did Mr. Coody offer you?' asked John pertinently.\n\n'Three hundred pounds in bank notes,' replied the skipper; 'but I'll\ntake \u00a3400 to clear; and dirt cheap, too, when you think o' what a nest\no' nightingales your fam'ly and friends will be at ten dollars a\nhead.'\n\n'Thank you,' said John, as he moved away; 'I'll just go round and have\na talk with my friend, and will let you know the result before ten\no'clock.'\n\n'Right,' replied the captain, cutting himself a fresh plug of tobacco;\n'\u00a3400 down, coin o' the realm, before ten, mind ye, and your friend's\nset up for life with a \"house beautiful\" that Solomon in all his glory\nand Mrs. Sheba couldn't have fixed up better between them.'\n\n'What a curious, profane, hard-featured set of men these Americans\nare!' thought John, as he stepped briskly away in the direction of his\nsenior partner's house. 'Why, the mind of that skipper is exactly of\nthe same temper as Bill's; his features are as irregular, even his\nvoice has the same twanging, nasal habit. However, he means business\nevidently, and I think I can persuade Mr. William to buy up his cargo,\nwhich will put, I imagine, a pretty stiff spoke in Bill's wheel.'\n\nWithin a quarter of an hour John was on Mr. William's doorstep, and\nten minutes afterwards was explaining the strategical position to the\nsenior partner in his dressing-gown. 'Certainly, John,' said Mr.\nWilliam slowly, after listening attentively to John's recital; 'we\ncouldn't possibly have Coody on our Board; it wouldn't do at all. Why,\nhe's a mere adventurer, and his method of under-cutting, \"busting\"\npeople up, etc., would bring discredit upon our firm and have a bad\neffect upon our business. No, it's quite evident, John, as you say,\nthat we can't square him--as to how far he means business, I don't\nknow. I incline to think he is bluffing us; but there isn't time to\nfind out how much he has up his sleeve; and if we buy up this cargo we\ntrump his ace, you think, and can make a profit out of it ourselves at\nthe stores after? Well, I daresay you're right, John; and, after all,\n\u00a3400 won't ruin us. We buy his cargo, and as he can't \"bear\" the\nshares, he'll be like a chained dog showing his teeth, but doing no\ndamage. Yes, I think it is an excellent idea, John,' Mr. William said\nin conclusion, 'and if you'll wait one minute I'll give you the cheque\nfor \u00a3400.'\n\nBy ten o'clock that morning John had completed his defences; the cargo\nwas bought; he held an indemnity against any claims from the skipper\nand owners of the goods in question; he had made an inquiry at the Old\nBank, and now was sitting down at the office to write a short note\nmarked 'private' to Bill, to tell him it was to be 'war to the knife.'\n\n'And I may tell thee, Bill, that thee had better give in with a good\ngrace; for, in the first place, thee cannot sell the shares below\npar--_vide_ the Articles of Association, paragraph 10--and, in the\nsecond, we have bought up thy cargo; and, finally, I feel assured that\nstores managed on thy suggested lines would never bring a blessing\nwith them. Thou saidst it was to be \"war to the knife,\" but we hope\nthee will think better of it, for thy sake more than for our own,' and\nwith a friendly warning John finished his letter, and despatched it by\nhand to 'William Coody, Esq.'\n\nLate that afternoon, just as John was leaving the office, a letter was\nbrought to him in Bill's handwriting. It ran as follows:\n\n     'Ta-ta, John, I'm off, you quaint, cocked-hat old Puritan\n     Precisian; but I couldn't leave without having tried a fall with\n     you first, and, on totting it up, I think Bill Coody's just had a\n     trifle the best of the m\u00eal\u00e9e. If I'd got on to the stores, I'd\n     have stayed in this derned little one-hoss place, but those\n     all-fired articles[21] upset that cart. I'll allow you that,\n     John; but I have you, my boy, over that little cargo of mine.\n     Why, the whole show was a got-up job, the cargo saw-dust, salvage\n     stocks worth \u00a320 at an outside figure. The skipper, being a pal\n     of mine, lent me his duds, this morning, for I knew you'd be down\n     there sniffing and spectacling about with the morning's sunrise,\n     and I had the show ready for you, John, to walk into, and in you\n     walked like blue blazes. The \u00a3400 will about pay for my trouble,\n     and for the premiums on the store shares. Your principals will\n     have to buy the shares back from the banks--they mustn't buy\n     below par, though, John--you remind them of that.\n\n     'I've sold my biz., and am off with my pal, the skipper, this\n     moment. No time to handshake. Ta-ta, John, and bear no malice.\n     Stick to piety and 5 per cent., and don't buy up bankrupt\n     cargoes, and you'll be Lord Mayor of Old Quay before you're\n     finished. So long, your pardner,\n\n                                                'BILL COODY.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[21] '_Article 5._--No shares shall be dealt in below their face value\nexcept with the consent of the Board of Directors.'\n\n\n\n\nTHE PROT\u00c9G\u00c9\n\n\nThe Vale of the Frolic in the far west of Northumberland had always\nbeen a favourite retreat of mine. As I trudged the London pavements in\nthe dog-days before the Law Courts rose, my heart panted for the green\nhills and the sweet silences of remotest Frolicdale.\n\nThe chiefest charm of the vale perhaps for me lay in the fact that it\nwas a track untrodden by the tourist, resembling the maid of the\nwaters of Dove in this--that it was one which, as yet, there were 'few\nto know, and very few to love.'\n\nIt was a pastoral, sheep-raising countryside, inhabited by shepherds\nalmost entirely, who were at the same time farmers also, for their\ntenure was something after the m\u00e9tayer order.\n\nThere was nothing to mar the quaint and antique flavour of existence.\nThe post, like our lifeboat institution, was here supported by\nvoluntary contributions. If anyone were 'gannin' up the wattor,' well\nand good; he would take the letters with him. If not, then they were\nleft at the schoolmaster's till called for. Newspapers, again, with\nthe exception of a weekly _Courant_ or a _Scots Mail_, were, like the\nwoodcock, but 'occasional visitors' in that region; and when it is\nadded that the house I usually stayed at was situated eighteen miles\nfrom a terminus of a slow branch line of the North British Railway\nCompany, it will be evident that the ordinary tourist had a very poor\nchance of putting in an appearance in that favoured region.\n\nI was recalling all these little details with infinite gusto as I sat\ndown at my desk to write to my friend the Presbyterian minister and\nschoolmaster of Fair-Green Haugh, suggesting a visit from myself a\nweek ahead.\n\nThe answer came just in time for me to pack up and start within the\nweek.\n\n'I am sorry to say,' wrote my friend in conclusion, 'that my\naccommodation is somewhat limited this summer, as I have had to give\nup my small sanctum to a prot\u00e9g\u00e9 of mine, who, though he has just been\ndischarged from gaol, will yet, I feel assured, become a highly useful\nand respectable member of society.\n\n'I know your kind heart, my friend,' he continued, 'and feel sure you\nwill not regret a temporary lack of comfort in so good a cause. You\ncan always use the schoolroom, as it is holiday time, for reading,\nwriting and smoking.'\n\n'Heavens!' I murmured to myself, as I took in the monstrous situation;\n'fancy having to spend my vacation trying to improve an infernal\nburglar! He knows my kind heart, he says. Well, it only proves the\ntruth of the poet's lines:\n\n    '\"Not e'en the dearest heart, and next our own,\n    Knows half the reasons why we smile or cry.\"\n\nI wonder,' I soliloquized, 'whether he is of the heavy, hang-dog,\ndropped-jaw type--the knifing variety, in brief--or the other\nspecies--the shifty-eyed, chinless, quick but evil brained sort. On\nthe whole, I prefer the first, for if he cannot control his temper, at\nany rate you know where you are with him, whereas with the latter you\nnever can tell what he may be up to.'\n\nAnyway, it was exasperating, for here had I been congratulating myself\nupon the sweet security of my proposed retreat, only to discover at\nthe last moment that I was destined to become co-warder of a criminal.\n\nHowever, it was no use making myself miserable before the time, and as\nI was at any rate now free from the choking London atmosphere I could\nrevel in the thought of fresh country air, liberty and leisure.\n\nI stayed the night at Heathtown (famous for the church wherein Bernard\nGilpin, 'the apostle of the north,' stayed the hot Borderers from\nfeud), and, drawing the heather-honeyed air deep into my lungs, felt\nmy strength so renewed that the thoughts of shifting the\nticket-of-leave gentleman if he didn't, in North-country phrase, 'keep\na civil tongue in his heid and behave hissel' respectable,' positively\ninspired me with pleasure.\n\nThe postman in his cart was, as it chanced, going up to the little\nvillage, styled a 'toon,' where the last post and telegraph-office\nthis side of Scotland is situated, and insisted upon giving me a\n'cast' so far upon my road.\n\n'No, nowse is changed ava,' he replied, in answer to my query, 'syne\nye were last here, save belikely that we are aal a year older, an'\nthat Farmer Newton's missus was brought tae bed wi' anither bairn a\nmonth ago last Saterday. Ye'll mind she had her fourth bairn the last\ntime ye were here, an' Farmer Newton, he says he'll just hae tae turn\npriest, an' get the Sixstanes livin',[22] an' there, ye ken, the Queen\nsends ye a ten-pound note for every addition tae yor fam'ly; an'\nthough there might not be ower muckle profit in it, it wud help tae\nkeep the pot a-boiling, says he. But I'm thinkin' mysel',' continued\nmy informant reflectively, 'that if Farmer Newton were tae give up\nshootin' an' huntin' sae muckle, an' took a turn at farmin', he'd have\na less reason for complaining.'\n\nAnd so we passed the time away, he regaling me with all the domestic\ngossip of the countryside, I interrupting him now and again to point\nout the historical objects of interest on either hand of us; for, like\nall true countrymen, though he knew every stick and stone by the\nwayside, he was entirely ignorant of the past history of his vale.\n\nWe were now close on the village where my driver ended his stage, and\nit suddenly occurred to me to inquire, as I thanked him for his\nkindness to myself, if he knew anything of my friend's prot\u00e9g\u00e9 at the\nFair Green Haugh.\n\n'Well,' he replied slowly, 'I have heard as hoo he has ta'en up wi' a\nconvick or gaol-bord o' that description. Wey, I canna tell. He'd\nmuckle better hae getten'd hissel' marrit; an' sartinly we divvn't\nwant that sort o' specie up this wattor-side. We hevn't muckle gear\nbelike, but we prefer tae keep wor ain. He'll be ain o' the lifting\nkind likelies, the same as thae moss-troopin' fellers ye were crackin'\non aboot enoo whae divvn't seem ivvor tae hae heard on the fifth\ncommandment. Ye'll be weel employed this holiday-time o' yors wi'\nlookin' efter him, I's warn'd. But yo're a lawyer chap,' he continued,\n'an' dootless ye'll find an excuse tae shift him wi'. Put on yor wig,\nan' nae doot but it will tarrify him.'\n\nI thanked the speaker for his advice somewhat ruefully, for his words\nexactly fitted my own presentiment.\n\nHaving bade adieu to my postman friend, and arranged for my heavier\nluggage to be sent forward in the next carrier's cart that might be\ngoing 'up the wattor,' I set out across the hills to The Nook on Fair\nGreen Haugh with my knapsack on my back.\n\nTwo hours' walking brought me within view of The Nook, and as I paused\nat the top of the brae to drink in the well-beloved aspect of the\nsmall 'bigging' that sheltered in the green coign between Windy Law\nand Blind Burn side, I noticed the figure of a man carrying a small\nchild in his arms.\n\nI knew most of the inhabitants of the vale by sight, but the aspect of\nthe individual in question was unknown to me. It was scarcely likely\nhe could be a shepherd's extra hand, for the washing and shearing time\nwas over, and a tramp in the ordinary sense of the term would have\nbeen, to quote from the ornithologists, a 'rare and occasional\nvisitor.' Besides, he had not the appearance of a tramp; he walked\nwith an easy boldness, apparently playing with the child as he\nstrolled, for as I drew nearer I could hear the child's voice\ngleefully crying, 'Again, again; do it again, funny man.'\n\nAs I drew nearer I looked at the stranger with interest, and noted\nthat he was a well-made, active fellow, of good proportions. His face\nwas slightly scarred, as though from small-pox, but not unpleasantly;\nit was as if the disease, suddenly repenting of spoiling a bright and\nhealthful countenance, had incontinently left him for another victim.\n\nHis eyes blue, his teeth, splendidly regular, were clean and white as\na hound's. Glancing at the child, I discovered her to be Maggie, the\nsix-year-old child of Tom Hedley, the herd at Fulhope Law, so I went\nstraight up to her and asked for a kiss as usual. 'No,' said the\ndiminutive flirt archly, holding her head backwards; 'no kiss for zoo.\nI's got a new man noo,' and forthwith she buried her curls in his\nneck. 'He's a nice funny man,' she continued in another moment,\npeeping forth from her hiding-place, 'an' he's got nae mair hair on\nhis heid than oor little puppy-dog at home.'\n\nI glanced at her captor, and noting his cropped crown, jumped to a\nsure conclusion as to his identity. 'Why, 'tis none other,' thought I,\n'than the prot\u00e9g\u00e9.' Possibly he read my thoughts; at any rate,\nreleasing one arm, he lifted his hand to a salute, smiling, meanwhile,\nin the most affable way in the world. I nodded 'Good afternoon,' and\nlearning that the minister was within and waiting my arrival, turned\nmy steps to the house.\n\nAfter our first greetings were over he commenced to apologize again\nfor the limited space at my disposal, but he was certain that when\nonce I had got to know his 'prot\u00e9g\u00e9,' I should think no more about it.\n'He is a beautiful character,' he concluded enthusiastically, 'one\ncould tell that at a glance by the way in which children take to him.'\n\n'I met him outside just a moment ago,' I replied, 'and he certainly\nseems to have won little Maggie's heart, but from my recollection of\nher half a dozen \"sweeties\" would explain that feat. And after all,' I\ncontinued judicially, 'some of the greatest ruffians that ever lived\nwere extremely fond of children. There was Herod, of course, but he\nwas the exception that proves the rule.'\n\n'Ah,' sighed my friend, 'that terrible London atmosphere! How it\ncankers the human affections! The theory of the law, I believe, is\nthat every man should be considered innocent till he has been proved\nguilty; but you lawyers, reversing this in practice, hold every man\nguilty till he prove his innocence.'\n\n'How about his hair?' I inquired rather unkindly.\n\n'His hair?' my friend queried, with a puzzled expression. 'Oh, I see\nwhat you mean,' he continued almost immediately, endeavouring to shed\na _soup\u00e7on_ of a smile over his seriously earnest countenance. 'But\ndon't notice that, please, or you may make him reckless. For now is\nthe critical time,' he added solemnly, with the professional manner of\na physician making his diagnosis; 'if he gets safely over this his\ncure may be regarded as practically assured.\n\n'The great thing is to believe in a man, to cultivate little by little\nhis sense of self-respect; by \"believing men to be better than they\nare,\" one may even, as has been so well said, \"make them better than\nthey are.\" In England we have always gone on a wrong principle; we\nworship success, worldly success, far too much, and have scant\nsympathy with the unfortunate. My friend outside says that he stole a\nleg of mutton for his starving daughter. The result is he cannot now\nget a situation, and his daughter has been taken from him, and is now\nin a home. Well, if the man be treated with contumely, he may very\nlikely despair and give up all hope of improvement. Treat him well, on\nthe other hand, and you may yet turn him into a useful citizen.'\n\n'You put a premium on wrong-doing,' said I, as I shook my head at his\nargument, smiling, however, at the impassioned face before me.\n\nHis high, narrow forehead with the ruffled upstanding hair betrayed\nthe enthusiast; the broad, refined, and eager lips marked a perennial\nemotion within; his eyes, notwithstanding their wonderful clarity, had\na far-away look in the depths of them; a spare form, thin wrists, and\nshrunken hands completed the presentation of the idealistic, mystical,\nDon Quixote type of human nature.\n\nWhile I thus reflected, my friend continued to pour out fresh\ninstances proving satisfactorily to any non-prejudiced mind the\ncorrectness of his theory.\n\n'But what are you going to do with him?' I asked eventually, 'for\nafter all that is the important thing. I mean, his being here with you\nmay be very nice for him, but it doesn't teach him a trade, and you\ncan't afford to keep him, I know, for long.'\n\n'First of all,' eagerly began my friend, 'I propose to keep him long\nenough to re-instate him in his self-respect; secondly, to study his\ntemperament and character thoroughly in order to discover what line of\nlife he is best suited for, and then to get him some appropriate\nsituation. That is the programme, and, I think, a quite practical and\nsatisfactory one. There is no \"pauperizing\" here, you see; it is\nsimply giving a man a fair chance. And now,' he continued briskly,\n'come out and inspect the garden.'\n\nThe prot\u00e9g\u00e9, it appeared, had been making himself useful therein,\nwhich my friend thought was a highly encouraging sign, 'for,' said he,\n'no bad man ever cared for gardening.'\n\nThe next few days I spent contentedly in absolute idleness, now\nstrolling up the waterside, now smoking and reading peacefully in the\nlittle arbour behind the herbaceous border. I had almost forgotten the\nexistence of my _b\u00eate-noir_; he showed, indeed, a most commendable\nreadiness to efface himself as much as possible from observation, and\nwhen I chanced to pass him he seemed rather to avoid me than to seek\nmy company. 'Good-morning,' I would say, if I happened to come out of\nthe house before breakfast for a stroll, and find him chopping\nfirewood, 'lovely weather, and looks like lasting, I think.'\n\n'Ay,' he would usually reply, with a hurried touch to his cap, 'it's\ncanny weather,' then muttering something about being busy, would\nincontinently hurry into the house. I took this as a sign of grace,\nand was quite favourable to the mode of intercourse thus established.\nBut my host, I could see, was pained at my apparent lack of interest\nin his prot\u00e9g\u00e9; so the next day, finding Blythe engaged in tying up\nthe suckers of the honeysuckle to the trellis of the arbour, I went\nboldly up to him, determined to try and draw him out.\n\n'Well, and how do you like the country?' I inquired. 'A pleasant\nchange after town life, eh?'\n\nHe gave me a quick, suspicious glance in return, then muttering, 'Ay,\ndootless,' again devoted himself to his occupation.\n\nI tried again, but, meeting with no encouragement, became, I am bound\nto confess, a little nettled, as though with an insubordinate witness.\nThe happy insouciance I thought to have marked in him at our first\nencounter had vanished, and ''Tis the knifing variety, after all,' I\nmurmured to myself, and fell to scrutinizing him somewhat severely.\nThere was something about him that somehow seemed familiar to me. I\ndetermined to probe, and see if he would wince.\n\n'Possibly you don't care about the country?' I suggested smoothly;\n'towns, perhaps, attract you more. York, for example, is a nice town,\nand, by chance, say September 30 for a little business in the\nvicinity, eh?'\n\nHe looked me full in the face at this, a very ugly smile curving his\nlips, as he replied abruptly, 'What is it you're wanting?'\n\n'I don't know that I want anything for myself,' said I, somewhat\nelated at the success of my conjecture, 'but I should like fair play\nfor my friend inside. Pheasants are scarce hereabouts, but possibly\nother things might come in useful. I needn't specify,' I continued\nairily, 'to a gentleman of your intelligence; 'twould be superfluous.'\n\nFor reply he made a bound at me, head down, and both fists\noutstretched. It was as the rush of the bull for the matador's flag,\nand my bound aside just saved me from his charge, though his right\nfist touched me on the chest and sent me staggering backward.\n\nHe turned, and came again; this time I had more space for manoeuvre,\nand the memory of an old fencing trick, learned in Angelo's school of\narms, swift as a flashlight, lit within my brain. I leant forward as\nthough to meet him like a boxer, then, as he rushed upon me, turned\nquickly sideways, fencing fashion, and slipped half a foot backward.\nHe missed me by a hand's breadth; a reek of tobacco touched me hotly\non the cheek; another moment and I had leapt forward on a late 'time\nthrust,' and caught my antagonist neatly just behind the ear. I had\nbeen unable to put any strength into the blow, but it proved to be\nenough to upset his poise. He staggered, stooped, and then fell\nheadlong on the path, scarce having time to break his fall with hand\nor arm.\n\nHe lay there for a moment or two, apparently half-dazed; then, slowly\npicking himself up, leant back with folded arms against an apple-tree,\nand surveyed me with a sort of sulky resignation.\n\n'Well, you've got the better o' me again,' said he; 'you've the luck\non your side, nae doot. \"Bing lay your shero,\"' I overheard him mutter\nto himself under his breath, which, taken in conjunction with his\nname, amply sufficed to confirm my conjecture of his gipsy origin.\n'What is 't ye want wi' me?' he continued, in a louder voice.\n\n'As I said before,' I replied slowly, seating myself upon a wooden\nbench in front of the arbour, 'I only require fair play for my friend\nwithin. A man of the world like yourself can easily deceive him, even\nto the half of his kingdom; and if he has a fancy to cure the leopard\nof his spots or whitewash the Ethiopian--or perhaps I might say the\n\"Egyptian\" rather--I would like the process to be as inexpensive as\npossible to him--you understand?' I queried of my opposite, smiling as\nI spoke; for I had the whip-hand of him undoubtedly, and to be\nunpleasant politely is part of the lawyer's art.\n\n'To put the matter more clearly still,' I continued, for he had made\nno response to my suggestion, 'I think a week of fresh air and quiet\nseclusion in the country should be enough for any man of active habits\nafter a period of enforced leisure; the hair, moreover, grows quickly\nin a country retreat, as Joshua's messengers found of old, and,\nbriefly, what I would advise is a moonlight flitting.'\n\nPleased with the brevity of my peroration, I took my cigarette-case\nfrom my pocket, and, having selected a cigarette, carefully proceeded\nto light it with the utmost deliberation.\n\nI had taken my eyes off him for the moment, partly in order to\nascertain if the cigarette were properly alight, partly to perfect the\nillusion of _sang froid_; and dearly I paid for my rashness, for with\na bound he was upon me.\n\nI ducked; but it was too late, and over I went backward, my enemy\na-top of me, crash through the arbour on to the stone flagging within.\n\nI was stunned, I suppose, for a minute or so, for I lay there\nwondering what had happened, and annoyed that a wasp, as I thought,\nshould have stung me in the neck. In another moment I had discovered\nthat the smart was due to a bit of live cigarette-ash that had chanced\nto drop inside my collar in my fall, and I tried to put up a hand to\nremove it. To my disgust, I found my hands were knotted tightly\ntogether; my legs, too, were bound, and, as I turned my head, my eyes\nmet those of my enemy, sitting beside me on a low stool.\n\n'The gadgi' (viz., 'gorgio,' or man of non-gipsy race) 'is but a fool\nin his pride and self-conceit,' said he; 'he is but a tortoise, for\nall his pushkin's (hare) gallop at the start.'\n\nThis was what I heard him saying as I recovered consciousness, and as\nI knew that gipsies always hide their origin, and refrain from their\nlanguage in the presence of the 'gorgios,' I felt certain he must be\nlabouring under great excitement, and momentarily expected to see him\nout with his knife and finish me there and then. Here he stooped, and\nI thought my hour had come, but apparently it was only to pick up my\nfallen cigarette. Pinching off the blackened end, he put it between\nhis lips, and, lighting it at the other end, drew in deep breaths of\ntobacco-smoke.\n\n'I don't wonder you enjoy it,' said I, as I watched his proceedings\nwith an intense annoyance; 'successful theft is pleasant to a tchor\n(thief), I presume?'\n\n'And who's the tchor in the end,' retorted he--'you or me? Speak,\nlittle gutterwhelp from the toon, that art paid to lie at so many bars\n(sovereigns) the lie. Your kind take a man's money, plead so ill that\nat the finish the \"stande\" (gaol) has him, while the big thief's left\nbehind in court wi' a white wig on, an' a smile on his ugly moi\n(mouth). Who's the tchor, then?' he repeated with a leer, as he blew a\ncloud of smoke in the air. 'I 'low ye got me nabbed at York 'Sizes,\nbut it wesn't yor doin', 'twas that dirty Jack Spraggon, who turned\ninformer an' legged me that time. Why, ye pink-eyed toon's-spawn, if\nI'd my rights, an' things were as they aince was, I'd hang ye tae the\nnearest tree. Look there,' he cried, as, stirring me with his foot, he\ndrew up his coat-sleeve and thrust a tattoed wrist over my eyes--'look\nthere, d'ye ken what that is?'\n\nI gazed with interest, for it was evidently an heraldic coat,\nexcellently well punctured in his flesh.\n\n'A lion rampant within a tressure fleury counter fleury, by Jove!\ndebruised by a bar sinister,' I murmured aloud.\n\nMy thoughts went back at a bound to memories of the 'Gaberlunzie Man'\nof the ballad, the errant James V., and 'ane louit Johnnie Faa, Lord\nand Earl of Little Egypt,' but all I said was, 'Still, people don't\nboast of an illegitimate origin nowadays.'\n\n'Illegitimate!' he cried angrily; 'I'll teach ye manners, ye ----' but\nhere a step sounded on the path outside, and in another moment my host\npeered in at the doorway.\n\n'Tut--tut--tut,' said my friend, removing his glasses from his nose in\nhis agitation, 'dear, dear! what can have happened? Speak, Ned;\nexplain, Will.'\n\nMy adversary rose to his feet, saluted our interrogator somewhat\nshamefacedly, and, pointing to myself, replied, 'He wes sae impiddent\nwi' me I'd just tae teach him a lesson, but nae harm's done.'\n\n'Oh,' cried my little friend, and he positively wrung his hands in his\ndistress, 'but you shouldn't,' and here he looked at us reproachfully\nin turn. Then a happy thought seemed to rise in his brain. 'We must\nforget all about this unhappy occurrence,' cried he; 'we will not\ninquire into it, but will shake hands all round, and begin afresh.'\n\nSo saying he immediately knelt down, undid my bandages, and helped me\nto rise from the floor. 'Now,' he cried, and seized hold of our\nrespective hands.\n\n'Well,' said my antagonist, 'I bear no malice, but keep yor tongue a\nbit civiler i' future.'\n\n'And refrain from pheasants and legs of mutton,' I nearly retorted,\nbut stayed my tongue in time, and the three of us shook hands promptly\nall round, as desired. I was willing enough to shake hands because I\nfelt I had been in error in taunting my antagonist, but I was not\nprepared for the reproof my host had in store for me, as he put his\narm through mine, and led me away for a stroll up the brae.\n\n'Oh, how could you do it?' he said. 'You must have stung him beyond\nendurance, and you promised, you remember, to respect him.'\n\n'I only told him the truth,' I replied sulkily. 'As a matter of fact,\nI recognised in him the first individual I ever had the pleasure of\ngetting convicted--at York Assizes--pheasant-poaching, stoning a\nkeeper, etc. One's first conviction is like one's first love--one\ncan't forget it.'\n\n'Ah, but if it is so, that is just an incident in that past career of\nhis which is quite dead and buried now; you see yourself how annoyed\nhe was at your bringing it up against him. Of course, his conduct was\ninexcusable,' he hastily added, suddenly remembering doubtless that he\nwas my host, 'but this vigour of resentment proves to my mind the\ngenuineness of his repentance.'\n\nIt was hopeless to argue, so I turned the subject, inwardly resolving\nthat I would leave on the morrow.\n\nAfter supper that evening I went outside to smoke, and there lingered\nlong, enjoying the soft, luminous northern twilight.\n\nThe murmur of the stream in the valley trembled amidst the silence of\nthe night, as of some old monk telling his beads in the solitude of a\nvast cathedral. Suddenly a discordant singing sounded down the vale.\n'Some roysterer,' thought I with disgust. 'I suppose there must have\nbeen a wedding or some festivity of that sort.'\n\nThe sounds rose and fell fitfully, but grew gradually louder. It was\nevident someone was coming 'up the wattor,' and I waited to see who\nthe disturber of our quiet could be.\n\nThe last corner had apparently been turned, for now I could hear the\nvoice distinctly. 'The prot\u00e9g\u00e9 again, by Jove!' I groaned.\n\nI meditated instant flight, but a fit of laughter caught me, and I\nstayed. Out of the gray twilight a toper lurched up to the gate on\nwhich I leant, and, steadying himself, momentarily peered into my\nface.\n\n'No malish, little Wool-shack, eh?' quoth he with a grin. Then,\nbecoming confidential, he leant forward and whispered, 'Drink ye for a\n\"bar,\" turn an' turn about,' producing as he spoke a most\nsuspicious-looking black bottle.\n\n'Look here,' said I, 'why did you come to this place?'\n\n'It's a free-sh country,' replied my opposite solemnly, 'an'\nwanderin's my trade, an' the wee big bairn upstairs, he's ta'en a sort\no' woman's fancy for us. Noo, Wull Blythe's like his ancient forbears,\nroyal Wull Faa, an' the lave, an' he cannot say nae to a woman, though\nhe'll ne'er tak' a look frae a man.'\n\n'Well, good-night,' I said, 'and don't wake the big bairn upstairs.'\n\nIt was some time before I finished packing, and after that was done I\nsat down and had another pipe by the window. I was just dozing off\nwhen a smell of burning seemed to creep in upon my nostrils, and the\natmosphere grew thicker to my sub-consciousness.\n\n'It can't be anything,' I murmured inwardly, and tried to recede still\nfurther into the dark grove of sleep, but a step outside my door\neffectually roused me.\n\nA light gleamed upon me. 'Come, my friend, come quick; I fear the\nhouse is on fire,' cried my host at the doorway; 'throw on a coat, wet\nyour blankets, and follow me upstairs at once with them.'\n\nI rushed upstairs headlong some few seconds after, and stumbled over a\nprostrate form on the small garret landing, a reek of whisky giving me\nassurance of its identity. I rose hastily, and passed into the room\nbeyond, where, amidst heavy smoke-wreaths, I perceived my host, now\nbeating burning bedding with his hands, and again stamping with his\nfeet upon smouldering coverings on the floor.\n\nI did my best to help him, and we succeeded shortly in getting the\nbetter of the conflagration. After emptying buckets of water over bed\nand bedding, we waited for some minutes to ascertain if any hidden\nfire lingered anywhere.\n\n'I think it will be all right now,' said my host; 'but come, we must\nlook after my poor friend outside--I fear he is badly burned. Poor\nfellow, he was lying in bed stupefied with the smoke. I suppose he\nmust have fallen asleep reading, and the candle must have set fire\nsomehow to the bed-clothes or curtain.'\n\nHe had scarcely finished speaking when he swayed suddenly, and before\nI could reach out an arm, had fallen to the ground in a dead faint. I\nlifted him up and carried him downstairs at once, and found that he\nwas rather severely burnt about the hands.\n\nAfter I had restored him to consciousness as best I could and dressed\nhis hurts, I proceeded, at my friend's earnest entreaty, to look after\nthe prot\u00e9g\u00e9, who was still lying prostrate on the garret landing;\nabsolutely unconscious and hopelessly intoxicated.\n\nHe was badly burnt on one arm, and scorched down one side of his body.\nAppearances seemed to show that he must have thrown off the\ncounterpane and blankets on to the floor, that there they must have\nbecome ignited either from his fallen pipe or candle, and eventually\nhave set fire to one side of the bed.\n\nThe doctor had to be sent for, and for a week the prot\u00e9g\u00e9 was kept in\nbed; when he did come down again he was as contrite as possible, and I\ncarefully avoided all mention of the disaster, for I had a dim feeling\nof guilt in the matter, suspecting that he went down the valley that\nevening to the alehouse in consequence of his excitement at his\ntriumph over myself.\n\nNow that he was about again, and my friend too was quite restored, I\ndetermined to depart, and the next morning went down early to the\nFrolic to enjoy a last bathe.\n\nI was sitting on a shelf of rock above a deep pool, drying myself\nslowly after my swim, when I heard sounds below me. Looking out from\nmy shelter, I saw Blythe, who appeared to be about to follow my\nexample. His procedure, however, was curious; for first he cast his\ncap upon the waters, then carefully deposited what looked to me like a\nBible on his coat on the bank, and, finally, having looked about him\nstealthily, took off his shoes and proceeded to ford the burn.\n\n'He's off,' I thought to myself, then cried to him, 'Holloa! what's\nup?'\n\nHe stood stock-still in mid-stream like one petrified, then,\nperceiving me, waded slowly to shore.\n\n'Noo, don't ye blab tae Mistor Rutherford,' he said, as he came close\nup underneath where I was standing. 'I's awa aff. I cannot stay, but I\ndoot the little man will be sair troubled aboot it, sae let him think\non as that I'm drooned, wi' the Bible there tae show I's a convarted\ncharacter, for he's been one tae many for Blythe, an' I wud'na like\nhim tae grieve ower my disappointing him. I cam' for a bit fun, but\nit's turning tae seriousness noo, an' I can't bide any mair, that's a\nsartinty.'\n\nI don't know whether I acted wrongly or not, but I fell in with his\nview of the situation, and when I had finished my dressing he had\nalready stolen out of sight.\n\nI stayed on another week after this, and during that time successfully\nconcealed my connivance at the prot\u00e9g\u00e9's flight.\n\nThe discovery of his cap and coat was considered proof of his having\nbeen drowned, and the Bible, borrowed from himself for the occasion,\nprovided at once a consolation for my friend and a rebuke to my\nscepticism.\n\nI spent a night in Oldcastle on my way back to town, and chance took\nme through one of the most thickly populated, though not most\naristocratic, quarters of the city. It was a fine night, and I had\nprolonged my stroll unconsciously. Suddenly the swing-door of a\npublic-house was thrown back violently, and a man came hurtling\nthrough, and fell with a thud on the pavement beside me; a face peered\nthrough the aperture of the doors for a moment, and in a flash I\nrecognised it.\n\nThe gentleman who had been thus ignominiously 'chucked out' slowly\npulled himself together, collected his faculties and his hat with\ndifficulty, uttered some violent and abusive epithets, then slowly\nstaggered off down the street with drunken dignity.\n\nI went inside the aforesaid doors. My eyes had not deceived me, for\nthere was the prot\u00e9g\u00e9 behind the counter in his new capacity of barman\nand 'chucker out.' He signed to me to follow him into the 'snug,' and\nthere confided to me that he had got a permanent job for the first\ntime in his life.\n\n'Here,' said he, 'is a bar' (sovereign); 'send it along tae Mister\nRutherford, an' tell him I's alive an' hearty, an' that I canna rest\ntill I's paid for the blankets an' beddin' I burnt the other week.\nMind,' says he, 'ye're not tae say where I am, but tell him I've a\nsituation, an's givin' satisfaction.'\n\n'Well,' thought I to myself, as I returned to my hotel, 'if my friend\nhasn't reformed the prot\u00e9g\u00e9, he has come at all events as near to\nsuccess as is good for the ordinary mortal.'\n\n\nFOOTNOTE:\n\n[22] The author understands that this is the case in regard to some of\nthe livings in the gift of Greenwich Hospital.\n\n\n\n\nTHE SPANISH DOUBLOON\n\n\nRansacking Jake's treasury one afternoon, I made an unexpected\nfind--no less than a Spanish doubloon hidden away in an old sporran of\na great-uncle of his.\n\nThe history of the fox-marked rapier, of the blood-stained tress of\nhair found at Cawnpore, and of the yellow robe of the Brahmin, I knew\nalready; but the heavy Spanish coin suggested something of a different\norder.\n\n'Come,' said I, holding it up so as to attract his attention, 'tell me\nthe tale connected with this--something to do with a pirate, or the\nSpanish Main, I dare swear.'\n\nJake smiled quaintly as he fingered the coin with deliberation. 'Weel,\nit's a queer tale, sartinly, that's connected wi' yon coin, but all I\ncan tell ye is what my aunt telled me langsyne, when she presented it\nto me on my joining the sarvice, just before I left for India.\n\n'Noo, my aunt, ye mun ken, was a widow woman who lived on a bit\nproperty she had left her doon at the small, ootlandish-named seaport,\nas it was then, o' Bocca Chica, on the Northumberland coast.\n\n'There was a man there she kenned nicely--in fact, she aye said\nafterwards, wi' a shudder at the thocht o't, that at one time he\nwanted to marry wi' her--who cut a big figure i' the place, by name\nIsaac Stephenson--\"Black Isaac,\" as he was mair usually styled. It\nseems he had been bred and born i' the place, but had run awa to sea\ni' his youth, an' after many voyagings here an' there turns up again\nwi' pockets fu' o' siller, and a wee, misbegotten heathen dwarf o' a\nMalay as his attendant.\n\n'The dwarf called hissel' Chilpo, or some such uncanny name, an' was a\nkind o' body-servant an' clerk an' dirty-job man to Isaac. But Isaac\nnever let on where he picked him up, an' Chilpo was a sour-tempered\nlittle deil, whom maist folks were terrified o'; sae naebody e'er\nkenned muckle o' his antecedents or ancestry.\n\n'Weel, Isaac, on his settling doon again at home, set up i' business\nas a shipowner an' broker, an' carried on a large business as an\nexporter o' coals, an' did a bit, as maist everybody did i' those\ndays, i' the smuggling line--salt, an' lace, an' brandy, ye ken. He\nhad siller, as I said, when he started his new trade, though naebody\nkenned hoo he had come by it; but it was no lang before he was the\nrichest man i' the toon, an' folk began to talk weel o' him, an'\npraise him up as a good citizen as was a credit to the toon, an' ask\nhim to open bazaars for them, an' suchlike.\n\n'There was just one strange thing aboot him, an' that was that the\nwomenfolk couldn't abide him. E'en after he had made hisself the\nrichest man i' the toon, he could ne'er get hissel' married, though\n'twas said my aunt, when he took up wi' religion, had aince had a\nthocht o' him, but no for lang, for there was suthin' aboot him that\ntarrified her when it came near the point.\n\n'He was no ill-favoured neither, for I mind seein' him mysel' as a lad\naince I was stayin' wi' my aunt--a tall, poo'erfu', black-haired man,\nwi' heavy eyebrows, an' a lustfu' sort o' eye--half hectorin', half\ncowardly. But he had a cruel sort o' look aboot him--thick-lipped, an'\ngreedy, sweaty sort o' hands.\n\n'Weel, after a good few years o' prosperity he turned sort o'\nsickly-like, an' for the first time i' his life began to think upon\nhis latter end, an' at the finish takes up wi' a sect o' Bible\nChristians, or Christadelphians, or some such body, who were glad to\nget hold o' such a rich, influential sort o' person withoot askin'\nower mony questions.\n\n'Weel, he gans to his chapel, an' he prays, an' he gies his testimony,\nan' calls hissel' all sorts o' names, but was ay cautious no to gie\nower mony details o' his sins, an' the good folk were highly edified\nby it, my aunt amangst them, an' asked him for subscriptions for every\nsort o' charity.\n\n'But Chilpo, he couldna stand this sudden right-about-face, for there\nwas nae releegion at aal i' his wee, misshapen anatomy, naething but\nlove o' siller, and beastly, secretive pleasures o' opium drams an'\nsuch like. An' he mutinies against it, an' cusses an' swears to\nhissel' i' his pigeon-English talk, for Isaac by degrees began to hae\nhis doots aboot the lawfu'ness o' smugglin' an' saeforth, an' Chilpo's\nwages an' profits dootless wud suffer by his maister's scruples.\n\n'Consequence was, there grew to be bad blood betwixt maister an' man,\nan' folk could hear them quarrelling inside the office o' nights, till\nat the finish there's a grand flare-up, Isaac seemingly strikin'\nChilpo, an' Chilpo clickin' his maister wi' his knife.\n\n'Chilpo gets the bag for that, Isaac no daurin' to prosecute him, for\nhe kenned ower muckle. But he disna leave the toon; just hangs aboot,\ndoggin' Isaac's footsteps, an' cussin' to hissel' i' his queer,\nootlandish way o' talk. \"Him coward,\" he would mutter, \"but Chilpo\nbrave man. He no take no blowee. Chilpo hang Isaac--hang himselfee--no\nmatter--Chilpo fear nozzin',\" an' he would gnash wi' his white teeth\nsavagely like a mad dog as he saw Isaac pass along the street.\n\n'His heart was just as black as his sweaty, black phiznommy, an' he\nproperly haunted Isaac till he fair plagued him to death.\n\n'One Sabbath, when there was a great function on at Isaac's chapel, he\nactually follows him in, an' sat sneerin' an' mimickin' an' makin'\ngame o' Isaac as he prayed an' groaned, an' confessed to bein' a\nmuckle great sinner i' the past, till Isaac was near mad wi' rage an'\nterror. He tried to pray, but the words wouldn't come richt, an' the\nsweat poured aff his brow, they said, till folk thought he was about\nto hae a fit or seizure o' some sort.\n\n'At the finish he gies it up, an', staggerin' on to his feet, points\ni' a frenzied sort o' way to Chilpo sittin' there below him, an' cries\noot loud: \"It's the deil, it's the deil! Drive him awa; drive him oot\no' the holy place! I tell ye he's sin hissel'. See the sooty face on\nhim!\"\n\n'\"Ugh! Black Isaac, him coward!\" shouts Chilpo, standin' up on his\nseat. \"Him sky-pilot nowee, no goodee any more. Once a timee\ndiffelent; good pilate once, grand pilate with Chilpo; men's pilate,\nwomen's pilates, temple's pilates, all sorts pilates. Oh yez; huzza!\nDam good timee then; ping-pang, click-click, plenty moneys, plenty\ngrogs, plenty funee. O yez; Chilpo, he knowee.\" The little heathen\nchuckled to himself, makin' uncanny motions wi' his hands o'\nthroat-cuttin' an' liquor-drinkin' an' fillin' his pockets wi' siller.\n\n'\"Him hipple-clite nowee,\" continued Chilpo, shoutin' aloud to all the\nchapel-folks who hadn't recovered theirsels from their amazement; \"dam\nhipple-clite! Why, him worship the debbil like Chilpo former timee.\nHim no use for prayee; him dam-ee, curs-ee; him Church's pilate,\nwomen's pilate, then burnee together. Oh yes, him lemember allight;\naskee him,\" an' wi' that he points his finger at Isaac, whose face was\nworkin' in a frightful fashion, his eyes starin' this way an' that,\nwi' no meanin' i' them, his lips black, an' his mouth slobberin'; then\nsudden he starts to run, but catches his foot an' falls full length\ndoon on the floor an' drums wi' his hands amangst the cushions.\n\n'There was a panic at that; half o' the women faints dead awa, the\nbairns scream, and some o' the men drives Chilpo, still chucklin' to\nhimself, oot at the door wi' blows, whilst others attend to Isaac\nlyin' wi' his head covered i' the dusty cushions an' his hands hard\na-grip o' the seat-stanchions.\n\n'They loosens his grasp wi' difficulty, but lifts him up at the finish\nwi' a shockin' face on him, an' a senseless tongue that babbled aboot\na parrot. Some said it mun ha' been i' reference someway to some\nwicked episode i' his past life which Chilpo kenned o' an' alluded to\ni' the chapel. Maybe a parrot had been left the sole survivor after a\nsack, ye ken, an' Isaac couldna forget the scene. Anyways, Chilpo, the\ndam cunnin' little de'il, kenned o' the hidden sore i' Isaac's mind,\nan' laid a cruel finger on 't wi' the blackest malice. An' there was\nnae doot aboot the outcome o't, for Isaac was gone clean daft, an'\ndied not long afterwards i' the asylum.\n\n'Weel, they gied him a big buryin', for his brethren i' the chapel\nsaid they believed he was a true repentant sinner, an' forbye that he\nhad left a good bit siller amangst them, which would dootless assist\nthem to that conclusion; an' as there had been some body-snatchin'\nlately, they determined to form a small watch committee to keep guard\nat the graveside for a night or two.\n\n'Weel, the watch was composed o' some decent elderly folk, who didn't\ntrash theirselves ower the job; an' mevvies the funeral festivities\nhad delayed them a bit, for they didn't arrive at the graveyard till\naboot half-past ten o' the clock.\n\n'It was ane o' thae tempestuous October nights, wi' half a gale\nblowin', an' clouds gallopin', wi' flittin's o' moonlight like jockeys\nridin' 'em; an' when they came nigh to the graveside, an' saw a dark,\nmisshapen sort o' a figure plyin' an axe vigorously, an' heard a thud,\nthud, same as ye may when passin' by a butcher's shop any day, why,\nthey turned tail and fled, the most o' them stumblin' this way an'\nthat amangst the headstones.\n\n'Two o' them, though, was a bit bolder, an' pressed on up to the\ngraveside, whereupon the little black demon figure thuds doon his axe\nwi' a sickenin' sound, then dives awa into the darkness, screechin'\noot: \"Chilpo, Chilpo! he makee sicker, he makee sicker!\" and therewith\nvanished frae Bocca Chica.\n\n'As for the doubloon,' concluded Jake, spinning it into the air as he\nspoke, 'it was found amangst some leavin's o' Chilpo's at his\nlodgin's, an' sold wi' some other trinkets to pay some small debts he\nhad left behind him.\n\n'My aunt bought it up as a memento o' the marcifu' preservation she\nhad had frae marryin' wi' a buccaneer; an' when I said good-bye to her\non startin' for India, she presented it to me, wi' an admonition ne'er\nto have any traffic wi' dwarfs or pirates.'\n\n\nTHE END\n\n\n\n\nPRINTED BY\n\nBILLING AND SONS, GUILDFORD\n\n\n       *       *       *       *       *\n\nTRANSCRIBER'S NOTE\n\nItalic text is denoted by _underscores_.\n\nObvious punctuation and spelling errors repaired. Punctuation and\nspelling standardized when a predominant preference was found in this\nbook. Other possible errors retained.\n\nPage 43, \"the many\" changed to \"them any\" (he'd never have hearkened\nto them any more).\n\nPage 164, \"Georgie\" changed to \"Geordie\" (responded Geordie\ngratefully).\n\nInconsistent hyphenation was retained. When uncertain of the author's\nspelling of words split across lines, hyphen was retained in such\nwords as \"chimney-piece\", \"god-child\", \"cock-sure\", \"well-made\". Words\n\"lampshade\", \"mantelpiece\", \"grandchildren\", also split across lines\nin the original, are not hyphenated in this text.\n\n\"GEORDIE ARMSTRONG, 'THE JESU-YTE'\" tale starts with subheading I,\nwhich suggests that the tale has several parts. However, there are no\nother numbered subheadings in this chapter.","title":"Tales of Northumbria","tradition":"folklore-oral-tradition","translated_text":null,"word_count":41208}