‘“T’ bet’s won!” shouts the Squire, marking t’ horse pick himself up before his rider and gallop away by himself over t’ far field; “t’ damned cockney cannot ride at all.”
‘“Yes, you’ve won your bet,” replies my lady, gathering her skirts together and holding them close as she passes him by, “but possibly you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman,” and with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t’ stairs.
‘Well, t’ hounds couldn’t get across t’ beck, and t’ Squire’s first whip was ready wi’ t’ horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was safe enough, but sorely damaged an’ bruised, an’ ’twas a full week before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign travel.
‘Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t’ Squire and Mistress Heron after that night’s play; she used to lament for Lunnon an’ its fashions, an’ on t’ last night of all she set t’owd Squire’s blood blazin’ by sneerin’ at “country yokels” and their drunken ways.
‘“Why, damn t’ ——!” cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a word more suitable to t’ kennels than t’ drawing-room, “ain’t we been here since King Alfred? An’ what can ye want more than that?”
‘Swift as fire she answers him, “One might wish that they were gentlemen,” says she, an’ cold an’ contemptuous she walks past him out of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her maid to pack up for her at once, an’ ’tis but an hour later when she drives away in t’ carriage an’ never sees t’owd place again.
‘Well, they separate by law, an’ shortly after, when t’ bairn comes to live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.
‘Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good Samaritan sort of deeds.
‘Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn to do better than anybody else. “Fox-’untin’ she learnt clever in six months’ time, an’ if ye can larn that ye can larn owt,” says he.
‘As for t’owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an’ nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an’ happier than ever he had been before.
‘His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad—just like himself, but with a touch of his mother’s pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t’ army an’ was sent to t’ Indies.
‘Well, time sped on, and t’owd Squire’s hair was turnin’ gray, when news came that his wife—Sister Eva, as they called her—had died suddenly in her retreat or convent.
‘Up goes t’ Squire to Lunnon without a word, an’ when the chief mourners—all of them ladies of t’ sisterhood, in their white dresses—were liftin’ up t’ coffin ropes to carry it to t’ graveside, an’ ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t’ back of his head, comes forward an’ quietly takes hold of t’ head ropes.
‘T’ sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. “Mesdames,” says he, “I was her unworthy husband,” and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave.
‘’Twas said that they were t’ same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day.
‘It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin’ with t’owd Squire, after t’ opening meet of t’ season.
‘“Here’s to fox-huntin’!” cries he, after t’ cloth was removed; an’ a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an’ he says, “And here’s to a saint in heaven!” an’ as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin’ on his cheek.
‘Little by little he tells him all about t’ quarrel and what had completed it: “And she was right, by G——!” cries t’ Squire at the end of it, “as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it’s too late, for she’s a saint in heaven.”
‘That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t’ poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when ’ounds should find on t’ morrow’s mornin’.
‘T’owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t’ close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.
‘It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t’ season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn’t rest till he knew for certain.’
‘Tell me about that mysterious affair of “Tom the Scholar,” and Jack Jefferson’s sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department. Tell me,’ I said again, ‘how you came to play the part of amateur detective.’
‘There was nowt o’ the ammytoor aboot it,’ retorted ‘the Heckler’ with aggressive dignity, ‘it was a proper perfessional bit o’ wark, an’ the pollis was fine put oot that they hadn’t had a hand in it. Wey, there was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an’ he says, “If ye had only tell’t me about it I could hev made a job on ’t,” says he, “’stead o’ lettin’ him gan an’ commit a fellor, d’ y’ see?”
‘“No,” says I, “I divvn’t see; it was him that done it, an’ it was us as copped him, an’ if I hadn’t taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would have still been usin’ long words an’ followin’ up yor clue like an aad blind man followin’ efter his dog,” says I, “for I’ve no sort o’ notion o’ the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an’ then at the finish gan an’ do it yorsel’.”
‘No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call “accessories efter the fac’”—meanin’ they comes up ti ye when aal’s ower an’ done wi’, like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin’ a prize.
‘Well, as I was sayin’, I copped “Tom the Scholar” aal maa lane, an’ I doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o’ the sort that has a bit grudge against everythin’, an’ vicious same as horses is sometimes, unforgettin’, unforgivin’—just a nasty disagreeable beggor, ye ken.
‘He was a scholar, though—“Tom the Scholar” they called him—an’ was aye busy wi’ books, nivvor had his head oot o’ them, whether at the Institute or at aad Mistress Swan’s, where he lodged.
‘Efter a bit he takes up wi’ courtin’ Mary Straughan, her who got married on Jack Jefferson, an’ I b’lieve she had a mind for him once, but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an’ a passionate way o’ talk he had, an’ she gave up walkin’ wiv him an’ took up wi’ Jack instead—a south-country chap that had come frae Yorkshire—a big, burly, thick-headed sort o’ chap, but tarr’ble good-natured.
‘Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an’ just before they gets “called” i’ church he tarrifies Mary wi’ vague threats as ti what’ll happen if she dares ti wed wi’ Jack. Noo, Tom was a “spirritualist,” ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an’ he swears that the spirits forbade the match, an’ would be properly savage if they was disobliged.
‘She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an’ she tell’t Jack ov’t, an’ Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp’t Yorkshire way o’ talk, “T’ spirrits be d——d!” says he; “an’ if that softy Tom comes interferin’ ’twixt thoo an’ me, I’ll make him softier than ever,” he says, shakin’ a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock’s head.
‘Well, they gets theirsel’s married wivoot askin’ leave either o’ the “spirrits” or o’ Tom, an’ as nowt happened, an’ Jack forbye was tarr’ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o’ Tom an’ his “spirrits” an’ aal.
‘They was tarr’ble happy those two, an’ I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin’ as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel’, an’ not what I is now—checkweighman, an’ half ov a magistrate as well, bein’ vice-chairman o’ wor lokil District Council[6]—an’ he cries, “Geordie,” he says, “Geordie, man, I’s that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There’s nowt I couldn’t do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I’s that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t’ sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an’ lay t’ fortnight’s wages that I’d best him too. I could sing, I b’lieve,” he says, an’ wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: “Ay, an’ I could even put up a bit prayer—though I’s not much ov a Churchman—almost as weel as t’ priest himself. An’ I’ll tell thoo why. It’s because Mary tells me that there’s likely gawin’ to be an addition to the fam’ly party sometime shortly. She’s a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an’ I’ll lay it’s twins.” “I’ll gie ye the best o’ luck,” says I, “but twins is tarr’ble expensive, for I’ve tried ’em,” says I. “Man alive!” cries he, holdin’ up his arm—a proper colossyum ov a limb—“look at that. If that cannot win bread for a dozen o’ twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas,” says he.
‘He was a fine brave man,’ continued ‘the Heckler’ slowly, ‘an’ I can see him still standin’ on the heapstead, an’ I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin’ high i’ the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i’ the cage that mornin’ for the last time together—just as full o’ life an’ vigour he was as thoo is noo—but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i’ this world.
‘It was the vary next mornin’ that he was killed, but I wasn’t doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an’ I was laid up i’ bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,’ and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.
‘Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin’ been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother’s gettin’ a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit.
‘Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an’ he an’ the galloway was comin’ doon an incline wiv a full tub, an’ the galloway, hevin’ bolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an’ came blindly tearin’ along this side an’ that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner. He was fearfu’ knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his head bashed in bi the tub’s wheels, an’ there he lay, dead as mutton.
‘The crowner comes doon an’ sits on the body, an’ the jury bring it in “Death by mis’dventure” slap off, bein’ iv a hurry likelies ti get oot for their dinners, an’ there the whole thing would have ended wiv a buryin’ an’ a gettin’ up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus an’ the bairn; ay, that’s hoo it would have ended up had it not been for “the Heckler.”
‘I wasn’t allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it oot aal maa lane—mevvies havin’ my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit; anyways, I lay there quiet i’ bed an’ found I could think it aal oot like Gladstone; ay, an’ I tell thoo that Gladstone an’ Horbert Spencor together cudn’t have thought harder than I did at that period o’ time, nor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a bit brag, mevvies, but it isn’t, by Gox! it’s just the naked truth.
‘Well, there I lay between the sheets wi’ my “linin’s” on, detarmined that if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us frae findin’ it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask Harry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it happened.
‘Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi’ tea, an’ spice loaf, an’ jam an’ aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an’ then I axes him a few supernumerary questions.
‘“Thoo’ll ken ‘Tom the scholar?’” I axes him—“him that’s a stoneman doon the pit, an’ gans in for spiritualism an’ sich like for his hobby an’ pastime?” “Ay,” he says, “I ken him nicely. Wey, I been at some ov his ‘seeantics,’ or whativvor it is he calls them, an’ I have the makin’ ov a fine ‘meejum,’” he says, “for I can parsonate folks ov aal kinds, males an’ females, wivoot any distinction o’ sexes.”
‘“Ay!” says I, interruptin’ him wiv a sort ov admirin’ surprise i’ my tone o’ voice, “can thoo, noo? Wey, thoo’s a clivvor one, that’s what thoo is.”
‘“Ay,” says he, quite enlarged at the thought, “an’ there’s some folk says that I isn’t quite right i’ the head, but they couldn’t parsonate Alexander the Great—him that the sword-dancers sing aboot—like as I can. Could they, noo?”
‘“No,” says I, “not they. They’re not scholars enough for that, an’ mevvies they would be gliffed at it as weel. Dis thoo nivvor get a gliff at the spirits?” I axes, careless like.
‘“Not while I’s parsonating, I divvn’t, but whiles when I’s doon the pit I gets a gliff,” says he; “it’s sae dark an’ lonesome i’ places.”
‘“Dis Tom ivvor try to make thoo parsonate doon i’ the pit?” I axes him, “for Tom, bein’ stoneman, ’ll come across thoo at times drivin’ yor galloway.”
‘“Ay, I’ve seen him doon below,” he says, “though he nivvor talked on aboot parsonating, but usuallies passes us by wivoot sayin’ nowt, for Tom’s a vary distant sort o’ chap, thoo knaas.”
‘“But sometimes mevvies he would speak wi’ thoo when he passed thoo, an’ other folks wasn’t aboot? Did he ivvor talk on aboot the spirits ti thoo at all? That day the galloway ran away, did he speak wi’ thoo that mornin’? Mevvies he did, laddie, an’ mevvies he told thoo not ti speak aboot it lest the spirits wouldn’t like it, or some such kind ov argument,” says I, insinuatin’ it tiv him like one o’ thae lawyer chaps iv a wig.
‘“Ay, he spoke tiv us that mornin’, sure enough, sayin’ as hoo he thought the spirits was vexed, for he had heard them callin’ i’ the pit itself through the darkness, an’ he wanted ti knaa whether I had heard the voices same as himself or not. Well, I hadn’t heard nowt, nor had nivvor thought aboot spirits bein’ doon the pit, but I gets a bit gliffed myself at that, an’ a bit later I ackshally heard them speakin’ aloud—sure an’ certain,” says he.
‘“Did they gliff thoo just before the galloway ran away an’ ran ower poor Jack Jefferson?” says I.
‘“Ay,” says he, “I got a gliff then, for I heard the spirits’ voices shootin’[7] oot against us.”
‘“Gox!” says I, “to think o’ that, noo! Wey, thoo gies us a gliff an’ aal; an’ what dis thoo hear them sayin’?” axes I.
‘“‘Here’s the parsonator,’ they shoots out aloud, ‘that calls us frae wor rest. Lepp oot upon him, an’ torment him! At him, Annexo!’ or some such ootlandish name,—‘at him, spirits aal!’”
‘“Sae thoo starts awa’ likelies wi’ the galloway at a gallop, an’ couldn’t get him stopped on the incline?” I axes him.
‘“No, no, I was ower flay’d mysel’ ti do owt; but the galloway must have gotten a gliff at something. I mind I thought I saw a flash o’ light just at the moment, an’ the galloway he couldn’t abide a sudden light across his eyes, he was that narvious; or mevvies it was the voice that gliffed him same as it did us; anyways, awa’ aff he goes wivvoot me, an’ dashes aff doon the incline wiv us chasin’ him an’ shootin’, ‘Woa, woo-h, Paddie; woo-ah, thoo daftie!’”
‘“An’ hoo far behind him dis thoo think thoo was when he come to the corner where he ran inti poor Jack? Did thoo see Jack theesel’, or hear him shoot out as the galloway butted him?”
‘“No,” says he, “I nivvor seen him, an’ I wasn’t far behind the galloway nowther, for as soon as the tub got awa’ frae the lines he couldn’t travel vary fast, for it was loaded. Aal I could hear was the bumpity-bump o’ the tub, then smash inti the wall—smash—smash—an’ a crash as the tub swung ower an’ dragged the galloway wiv it. I can mind nae mair nor that, mistor,” says he, at the end ov his tale, “for I fell slap ower Jack Jefferson’s body i’ the darkness, an’ pitchin’ full upon my head was knocked senseless, till they come along an’ picked us up. An’ that’s the whole story, Mister Carnaby,” says he, “an’ I’ve done wi’ the spirits, an’ parsonatin’, an’ aal noo, for they’re treacherous things, there’s nae doot aboot it,” says he.
‘Weel, that was aal I could get oot ov him, sae I gives him some sweeties an’ lets him gan, biddin’ him not let on that I’d axed him any questions, ye ken, an’ efter that I lay i’ bed thinkin’ it aal ower an’ makin’ up a plan o’ campaign for when “the Heckler” should be up an’ aboot again.
‘Efter aboot another three days I was allowed oot by the doctor wiv a sort o’ lampshade ower my eyelids, an’ the next day bein’ “pay Saturday,” an’ the pit idle, I detarmines within my ain mind ti gan doon maa lane an’ hev a look round by myself; for it’s no use trustin’ anyone else when ye’ve got a job o’ that calibry iv hand, ye ken.
‘I kenned where the trajiddy had taken place, o’ course, sae I detarmines ti gan ti the spot an’ make a sarious of obsarvations. “First place,” I says ti myself, “there winnot be much change i’ the surroundin’s, for it’s a new drift in by there that they are drivin’, wi’ ‘Tom the Scholar’ an’ his marrow, an’ not many workin’; an’, secondly, it’s damp there wi’ the salt water oozin’ in through the rock, sae that footmarks will have a good chance ti stand a bit.”
‘Noo, “Scholar Tom” had a tarr’ble large footprint, ye ken, an’ it was that I was i’ search o’, for I had my suspicions o’ what might have happened, an’ I was convinced that that d——d, mistetched beggor was at the bottom o’ poor Jack Jefferson’s sudden endin’—ay, an’ whenivvor I thought o’ that fine, brave chap an’ his bright face an’ his happiness, I says ti myself, “There’ll be no rest nor pleasure nor nowt for ‘the Heckler’ till the mystery’s discovered; an’ it’s yor job ti discover it,” I says ti myself.
‘He was bound ti have been there, for, o’ course, it was him as shooted out that nonsense at Harry that had gliffed him, an’ dootless it was him that had flashed his davy i’ the galloway’s eyes.
‘Jack, d’ye see, would have been lousin’ off frae his wark an’ walkin’ doon the drift at that time when the galloway started off; but what beat me was that Jack couldn’t hev got oot o’ the way i’ time, bein’ fine an’ active, grand at hearin’ and seein’, an’ ne fool forbye that.
‘Noo, just when I had detarmined upon this i’ maa mind a sort ov an inspiration takes us aal ov a sudden. “Wey divvn’t thoo take that driver lad alang wi’ thoo ti show thoo exactly where the trajiddy happened?” it says tiv us just as thoo it was a real, genu-ine voice i’ my inside. “Sink me!” thinks I, “it’s a tarr’ble clivvor idea, an’ sae I will.”
‘“Has thoo anything else ti add ti that, Inspiration?” I axes it, an’ shortlies efter it says, “Divvn’t thoo trust ower much ti what Nicholson says, nor tell him o’ yor plan beforehand, for he’s i’ Tom’s power, an’ tarrified ov him,” it says again.
‘“Gox!” thinks I, “but this is the champion; wey, I’s as good a spiritualist as Tom himself.”
‘“There’s one last question I must ax thoo,” says I, for I hadn’t properly thought beforehand o’ the difficulty o’ gannin’ doon the pit on “pay-Saturday,” an’ that is: “Hoo i’ the warld can us gan in-bye? for thoo kens that naebody but the furnace-man, engine-man, an’ horse-keeper gans doon that day, an’ if anyone else wanted ti, wey, he would have ti get leave frae the manager, an’ even then he would have ti have a deputy alang wiv him. Answer us this, Inspiration,” says I, “an’ it’s a clagger for thoo, I’s warned.”
‘But, mevvies efter two minutes, it whispers back two words, “drift,” an’ “beer.”
‘“Drift?” I repeats, an’ “beer?” An’ then aal at onst I sees the implication, for I kenned the lodge-keeper at the head o’ the drift nicelies, an’, what’s mair, I kenned what Sammy Cuthbertson, the local preacher, calls “the joint iv his harness” still better.
‘Sae I gans up tiv him quietly, an’ I says tiv him, “Geordy,” says I, “hoo much o’ the best beer will five bob procure iv an emergency?”
‘“Five bob,” says he, vary serious, “will buy aal but two gallons o’ the best bitter, an’ d—— the emergency,” says he.
‘“Dis thoo prefer it i’ bottles, or iv a greyhen, or iv a pail—an’ aal at onst?” says I.
‘“Bottles is no use,” says he, ‘wey, the corks alone will mevvies take a pint ti theirselves. Na, na, gie it ti me iv a pail for aal-roond drinkin’.”
‘“Well,” says I, “thoo shall have it iv a pail if thoo’ll just let us an’ the lad here gan in doon by the drift for an hour ti investigate a private matter o’ wor ain—just a visit ov inspection. No harm done, nobody need ken, an’ up again within the hour, I’ll promise thoo that,” says I.
‘Well, his face prolonged itself at that a bit. “But if it was kenned,” says he, “I’d get my notice.”
‘“Nobody will ken but us three,” says I; “an’, look thoo, thoo shall have the pail at yor dinner to-morrow forenoon,” says I.
‘That did the business for him, I’s warn’d, an’ he promises ti oot wiv his key an’ let us gan in by. Poor chap, though, he got his notice aal the same, though it wasn’t my blame: it was because he was ower-greedy an’ thought he could get another pailful oot o’ somebody else later.
‘Well, I says nowt ti Nicholson aboot gannin’ doon the pit till the vary mornin’, and then I gans along an’ catches ahaud on him, an’ says, “Ho-way,[8] thoo mun come along wiv us doon the pit, for I wants ti see the place o’ the accident myself, an’ I hev arranged aboot gannin’ doon,” I says. Well, he turns quite white at this, an’ whines an’ cries not ti gan; but I was res’lute wiv him, an’ tarr’fies him wiv a hint ov a gaol if he winnot come doon and show us aal I axes him.
‘Well, we went by the drift and straight doon ti the “Number 3, North,” or “Joan” district, as we call it worsels, an’ there we gropes aboot the trolley-way, just at the corner where the accident must have taken place, an’ searched for footmarks.
‘The lad, ye ken, must just have started frae the putter’s flat wiv a full tub, an’ aboot thirty yards doon he must have been gliffed. Hereaboots, iv a fenced place, Tom must have waited on Jack’s “loosin’ off” frae his wark, an’ another ten yards further on is where the galloway must have run awa’ off frae the rails. I had it aal mapped oot ready i’ my mind, an’ it was just the details I had ti fit in wiv it.
‘There was mair tramplin’ aboot than I had expected, what wi’ the galloway’s stumblin’, the tub ploughin’ alang through the dirt, an’ the footprints o’ the search-party that had come up ti the scene o’ the casualty; but for aal that, I could see here an’ there the marks o’ Tom’s big shoes, wi’ the extry broad plates at heel an’ toes he used ti wear.
‘Mevvies it wasn’t ower much ti see, but it heartened us up, for it conformed us i’ wor opinions, especially the fact that wherever they was visible they was close in by the wall-side, as if he had been wishful ti hide himself as far as might be—a sort o’ presumptuous evidence against him, as the lawyers call it.
‘“I will have ti gan back ti bed again,” I says ti myself, “ti think it aal oot properly, for though I haven’t a doot about it myself, I’ll have ti convince aal thae thick-heads o’ judges at my lord’s ’Size[9] before I gets him properly convicted, sae I must have it aal pieced oot an’ put together like a bairn’s puzzle-map.”
‘Well, we was slowly makin’ wor way oot o’ the passage when I hears something comin’ up-by, creak, creakin’ as it came. Weel, I’s no coward, I’s warn’d, an’ I’ll face any man livin’ that ye like ti mention, but I got a fair gliff at that, for I couldn’t make oot what it might mean—Nicholson an’ us bein’ the only folk aboot doon there. “Gox, it’s Jack’s ghost!” think I ti mysel iv a sudden sweat o’ fear. Sae oot at once I turns my davy (lamp), an’ the lad’s, fearin’ lest he might notice us, an’ shrinks back inti the corner o’ the wall as small as could be, with the lad tremblin’ aal ower next us. Efter a bit I sees a wee glimmer o’ light shakin’ i’ the darkness, then a shadow ov a man behind it, an’ slowly, vary slowly, as if seekin’ something, it mounts up the passage towards us.
‘“Hist!” says I ti the lad iv a thick whisper, “just smear your face an’ hands ower wi’ clarts, or the ghaist will cop us,” I says, an’ grabbin’ a handful I clarts his face an’ hands iv an instant o’ time; then I scrapes up a handful for mysel’ an’ aal, but i’ reachin’ oot for a good fill o’ clarts my hands struck up against a sort ov a heavy bar o’ some specie or other.
‘I gied a bit haul at it, an’ awa it comes up inti my hands—a small, heavy, but handy bit ov iron it was, mevvies about sixteen inches long, wiv a sort o’ knob at the end o’t.
‘“I’ll have a look at thoo later,” says I, an’ claps it inti my pocket wi’ the one hand, whiles I clarts my face wi’ the other. Meantime the creakin’ thing was drawin’ nigher an’ nigher tiv us, but the light wiv it was tarr’ble dim, an’ I couldn’t have given it a name.
‘On came the light an’ the shadow, but the creakin’ noise had stopped; ’stead o’ that there was a squelch, squelch, as ov a man steppin’ in an’ oot’ o’ mud.
‘It passed us biv a finger’s breadth, an’ I almost shouted aloud by way o’ relief, for it was a real live flesh-an’-blood man, wiv a fouled davy, an’ no ghost—for ghosts canna spit, I’s warn’d.
‘“D—— thoo!” I was just aboot ti shoot at him, comin’ flayin’ folk i’ that fashion. “Who is thoo, thoo ——” when he stops short on a sudden, just round the corner above us, an’ talks tiv himself oot loud. “Ay, it’ll be just aboot here,” he muttered, “that it fell,” and I could have let flee a yell o’ delight that would have brought a fall o’ stone doon, for it was no other voice than “Tom the Scholar’s” himsel’.
‘“Thoo b——!” I says ti mysel’, an’ clenches my fist tight; “thoo b——! but I’s copped thoo noo.”
‘“Tell ti me noo, Annexo,” continues Tom, usin’ the same furrin’ sort o’ talk as he had ti the lad; “tell ti me noo where it lies—the weapon that freed my destined bride frae unlawful arms. I mun hev it back, for there’s a d——d chap i’ wor village that they call ‘the Heckler,’” he gans on, the impittent scoondrel that he was, “a daft feller that’s mad aboot dogs an’ sic’ like nonsense, but he has his suspicions, an’ mevvies might be dangerous, for he has been questionin’ my meejum, Nicholson, the driver lad. Speak then, Annexo, speak, my beauty. Where lies my trusty weapon? Speak louder,” says he again, impatient like, “for I canna hear i’ the darkness.”
‘Just on that instant I gets another inspiration i’ my insides, an’ wivvoot mair ado I whispers oot loud iv a fine, feminine, and superfluous voice: “Search ti the right hand a bit lower doon, canny man,” says I, “an’ thoo’ll find what thoo is wantin’,” an’ I held oot my hand ready ti grasp his wi’ when he stretched it oot.
‘“Aha!” says he, quite gratified like, “sae thoo has found a voice, has thoo?”
‘It was nigh pitch darkness about us, for his davy had almost gane clean oot wi’ the clogged wick, but I could feel his hands gropin’ towards us, an’ I says ti mysel’, “Another foot, an’ a murderer’s copped!”
‘His hands came hoverin’ ower mine, for I could feel the wind o’ them; in another second he touches us, an’, grabbin’ ahaud ov him by way o’ reply, I shouts oot, “Ay, here’s Annex-us, thoo b——!”
‘The yell he let oot was fearfu’, an’, startin’ back, he dragged his arm oot o’ my grasp, an’ then leaped forward iv a flash, ducked past us, an’ awa off round the corner he fled, us efter him like the aad bitch[10] efter a started hare.
‘He had dropped his lamp, an’ it was darker nor Hell itself, but I could hear him dashin’ along i’ front ov us at wondrous speed. Mad keen I was, as I tore efter him ower bits o’ balk an’ stone lyin’ aboot doon the rolley-way, bended double sae as ti avoid the roof-beams. Bang up against a door I comes, shakin’ mysel’ intiv a jelly by the shock, but when I had it opened an’ was through I could still catch the sound ov his footfalls not far in front ov us. “He’ll have come a big bat hissel’ against the door,” I thinks ti mysel’ as I started off again, “ay, an’ bein’ before us he’ll have aal the obstacles ti contend wi’ first ov aal. Huzza, ho-way!” an’ I tore efter him, a fair deevil for recklessness—makin’ no doot he was for the main rolleyway, an’ sae oot by the main drift by which we had entered the pit.
‘There came the thud ov another door, an’ I gans a bit mair cautious like, fendin’ wi’ my hands i’ front ov us. Shortlies efter I notices that the footfalls sounded fainter-like; they seemed ti be comin’ frae the left-hand side noo an’ not i’ front ov us.
‘Aal ov a sudden I minds mysel’ ov a return air-way that would lead oot by the main drift. “Gox!” I thinks, “thoo’s hit the mark, but where the openin’ is I cannot mind, for it isn’t travelled biv any one barrin’ the deputies. He passed the door i’ front ov us, but bi the sound he’s ti the left hand ov us noo;” sae I felt along the wall till I comes tiv an open way. “Ho-way,” says I, mad ti think he might escape us efter aal, “ho-way, thoo’ll get him yet!”
‘On, on I went at a reckless speed, ti make up for my bad turn, an’ iv another minute I gied tongue like a foxhound, for I heard him pat, pattin’ on i’ front ov us. “I’s copped thoo!” I yelled through the darkness tiv him, ti tarr’fy him, for I heard him stumblin’ amangst some loose props or gear o’ some sort quite plainly, “I’s copped the murderer!”
‘Foot upon foot I gains on him; I hears him pantin’ just a yard or two i’ front ov us. I grasps oot wi’ my hands an’ touches his shoulder, an’ he yells wi’ terror, givin’ a leap like a hare, an’ slips frae under my hands.
‘Doon, full length, doon I fell wiv a smash like a fall o’ stone, half stunned, my head like a night o’ stars.
‘Suddenly there comes a yell o’ horror—then a thud, a clump, clump, an’ a c-clush, an’ then stark silence, an’ doon, right doon at the bottom ov a staple fifteen fathoms deep ten yards i’ front ov us lay aal that was left o’ the murderer copped, clean copped, by “the Heckler.”’
‘Ay, that’s what ’tis,’ replied ‘the Heckler’ to my query, ‘it’s an “in memoriov’m”—Latin, ye ken, meanin’ in memory ov him. The words is alike, mevvies, but it’s Latin language, I’s warn’d, an’ I howked it oot upon that headstone myself wiv a clasp-knife.’
I knelt down upon the sandy dune and brushed aside the bents that nearly covered the squat gray stone with their long lashes, and eventually deciphered a straggling array of figures which for their illegibility would have enraptured an antiquary.
‘It was just below us,’ continued ‘the Heckler,’ ‘that I found his cap, an’ thinkin’ him drooned, an’ him bein’ a favour-yte wi’ me, I just put up that bit stone for him an’ carved his initials on it, an’ the Latin, an’ G. C., that’s for us, “the Heckler,” ye ken, his mark. But it was a false alarm efter aal, an’ noo that Jim Hedley’s a Right Hon. Lord Mayor oot iv Australie, I’s warn’d but when he’s put under the sod he’ll hev a hearse an’ four horses an’ a proper musulyum’ (mausoleum) ‘tiv hisself.’
‘What made you think he was drowned?’ I inquired. ‘Did you think it a case of suicide?’
‘Ay, o’ course I did; we aal did that, an’ not wivvoot reasons,’ responded ‘the Heckler,’ ‘for he was full o’ misery at that time, an’ wanted ti get shot o’ the whole lot ov it. Jim was a fine, tall, proper lad—“bonny Jim” the lasses called him—wunnerfu’ handy, too, iv aal sorts of ways, an’ as for behaviour, wey, he could talk ti my lord as canny as tiv a pot-boy.
‘Well, wiv aal these gifts o’ fortune it wasn’t surprisin’ he got hisself sweetheartin’ wiv a young, bonny, quiet-faced lassie, daughter ov aad Sheepshanks, the farmer, close in by the village.
‘It was a bit lift for Jim, for she had some brass, but aad Sheepshanks, he tries to forbid the “callins”’ (banns) ‘i’ church; “for what’s a pitman,” says he, “that a farmer’s daughter should marry on?—a dirty-faced, drunken, dog-lovin’, gamblin’ chep,” says he; an’ a lot o’ gob o’ that kind, ye ken, bein’ a red-hot Tory wiv a lot o’ Noah’s-ark kind ov ideas iv his head.
‘The lassie didn’t think that, though; she just warshipped Jim, followin’ him aboot wiv her eyes everywhere, just like the aad bitch’ (here he nodded towards the greyhound beside him) ‘does “the Heckler.”
‘Well, they marries an’ has a bit fam’ly, an’ Jim gans ahead quick; he was marrow’ (mate) ‘wi’ me as a hewer yence, an’ then he becomes a deputy, an’ bein’ a great reader an’ a gran’ speaker, there was some talk o’ makin’ him wor Member o’ Parlyment when he got a bit older. Well, it had aal been plain sailin’ for Jim so far, an’ everybody thought his success was sartin, but he soon came tarr’ble nigh makin’ a tragedy ov hisself, poor chap.
‘There was a young widow woman came ti live doon here at the Prospect House ower there. She’d been married on a fat old chap that had made a lot o’ brass i’ the toon i’ publics, an’ they used to come here for a bit i’ the summer, an’ when he died she comes doon ti the “Prospect” ti bide for good an’ aal.
‘I sometimes think,’ continued my companion after a slight pause, ‘that it’s a sair pity folks isn’t sometimes drooned like kittens or “put under” same as dogs that turn oot no use. It wud save a lot o’ misfortunes an’ misery, I’s warn’d, an’ unless ye drooned a Gladstone, or a John Wesley, or mevvies even a “Heckler,” the world would be aal the better o’t.
‘Anyways, she should have been drooned slap off as a babby, for she was a rank bad un—just rank bad ti the bone—an’ when a woman is bad, she’s just the devil’s own viewer[11] or deputy, by Gox!
‘She had been on the stage, ’twas said, at one time, an’ there was queer stories aboot her, so that the gentry-folk aboot here would have nowt ti do wiv her, sae she had aal the better opportunity ti play her tricks wi’ Jim.
‘She was free wi’ the brass, ye ken, an’ give subscriptions awa for the askin’, providin’ she had her name an’ address clagged up large on the play-bills, an’ was a champion at gettin’ up concerts for wor Mechanic Institute an’ such-like entertainments.
‘That was hoo she first got a hand upon Jim, for he had a gran’ voice—a perfect champion at harmony he was, an’ she just buttered him up properly. It was “Oh, Mr. Hedley, an’ what a fortin ye would have made in the Opera!” “Sing it again, Mr. Hedley, it’s fair ravishin’,” an’ so she carried on till she had him awa to practise duetties wiv her at her hoos, an’ made him stay ti supper wi’ glasses o’ wine tiv it—yellow shampain wine that’ll set your brain iv a froth, I b’lieve, an’ at the finish she has him just drugged wiv her enchantments.
‘There was one night I mind I was oot walkin’ an’ chanst ti pass by alang that road there that leads past the hoos—the trees wasn’t grown up then, ye ken, an’ I could spy a bit in through the windie, which was open on the night—it bein’ summer then, d’ye see.
‘She was settin’ beside the pianner playin’ pretence wiv it, an’ castin’ up white eye-glances at Jim soft-like, noo an’ again, with a sort ov insolence, too, as though she kenned her power ower him—drawin’ oot the very marrow an’ soul ov him wiv her perfections.
‘She was aal clad i’ silks an’ satins, like a play-actress—her bosom gleamin’ wi’ jools, an’ Jim was leanin’ against the pianner gazin’ at her, fair drunk wiv her blandishments.
‘I cuddn’t stand by an’ just do nowt ava, sae I let fly a yell upon the night, “Ho-way home ti thy own lawfu’ missus, an’ leave that d——d hussy alone.”
‘He gave a sudden start at that, an’ leaps round ti the windie, claps it ti wiv a smash, an’ pulls the curtains ower it.
‘Well, I kenned then by that token that it was aal ower wi’ Jim. She had him fast, an’ nowt could be done, for interferin’ i’ them cases is warse than useless; but I was sair, sair grieved for him an’ his wee quiet bonny-faced wife, an’ I walked awa home callin’ that woman aal things I could lay my tongue ti under heaven.
‘Things went gradually from warse ti warse; he neglected his work an’ avoided his wife, an’ he became tarr’ble violent iv his temper, an’ nigh offered ti fight me yence when I tried ti argy wiv him upon his foolishness. Well, the crissis comes one night when his wife follows him ti the Prospect Hoos an’ walks straight inti the drorin’-room where him an’ the other woman was. He’d just been threatened by the viewer, d’ye see, wi’ gettin’ his notice if he didn’t pull hisself tegither, an’ knawin’ things were aaltegither wrang wiv him, he just gans slap off ti the woman oot o’ pure recklessness, for he was none o’ yo’r half an’ half gentlemen, an’ as he was gannin’ ti the deevil, wey, he wud gan wiv a brass band, ye ken.
‘His wife comes in upon them like a ghost, an’ never heedin’ the other woman, cries tiv him, haudin’ oot her arms for him, “Oh, come back, Jim, come back; divvn’t break my heart!”
‘Jim says nowt, but glares moodily on the ground, an’ there’s silence for a bit. Then the woman begins ti laugh saftly tiv herself, eyein’ Jim’s missus scornfu’ like frae top ti toe standin’ there, small an’ shabby-dressed an’ tearfu’, an’, “Wey doesn’t thoo gan?” says she, “here’s yo’r hooskeeper come ti fetch thoo home!” she says.
‘Jim gies a start at this an’ looks up wi’ blazing eyes at his temptress, then he says tiv his wife, “Gan home, Mary, gan home; this is no a fit place for thoo,” an’ sae she gans awa softly, weepin’ like a desolate bairn.
‘Soon as the door shuts he turns upon the other woman, an’ he says sternly, “This is the end o’t, Susan; I’m gannin’ awa’ an’ ye’ll never see me mair. You’ve plenty brass, an’ can fend for yo’rself. I’ve given thoo my life, an’ I can do nae mair; sae good-bye, my lass, for ever an’ aye.”
‘But she rushes tiv him, an’ clasps her arms roond aboot his neck an’ sweethearts him an’ swears they must get married; but Jim, he puts her quietly awa’, an’ wiv a stone-set face gans oot o’ the hoos an’ straight for the shore.
‘Tossin’ his cap on ti the ground, he walks right inti the waters an’ begins swimmin’ oot, right oot inti the sea, there ti droon hissel’ an’ his troubles straight awa.
‘Well, mevvies he was ower strong ti be easy ti droon; mevvies the cold water cleared his mind a bit, an’ he thought shame on hissel’ ti leave wife an’ bairns ti shift for theirsels; anyhoo, as he said efter, when he saw the red light of a little schooner ridin’ waitin’ for the tide off the harbour, a thought cam intiv his brain, “Wey not gan right awa an’ make a fresh start iv a fresh place?”
‘The thought grows on him, an’ he swims oot ti the schooner just as she was standin’ awa for London town, an’ he hails her an’ is taken on board i’ the nick o’ time. Another minute an’ she would have been oot o’ sight an’ hearin’, an’ Jim would have been a corpse in another ten minutes, I’s warn’d.
‘Well, nowt is heard ov him for months an’ months. “The Heckler” carves an “In memoriov’m” on that headstone; his missus gans inti “blacks,” an’ the other woman leaves the Prospect Hoos an’ gans right awa from these parts.
‘One day though, Jim’s missus comes alang tiv us cryin’ an’ laughin’ aal at yence, haudin’ up a letter and kissin’ it between whiles. “It’s from Jim! Jim!” she cries, “an’ Jim, sweet Jim, he kept hissel’ alive for me an’ Jackie an’ Sal! Oh, he loves me yet, my Jim!”
‘Well, it seems as hoo he had gan oot tiv Australia, an’ efter a bit wanderin’ had gettened hisself a very canny sitivation at a gold mine, an’ he sends aff at yence for his missus an’ bairns, an’ a week later awa they starts.
‘They finds Jim doin’ first-class when they gets there, an’ he went ahead like a hoos-o’-fire as soon as he gets his missus an’ bairns back tiv hissel’, an’ the past wiv its clartiness was just clean wiped out between them.
‘An’ noo he’s the Right Honourable the Lord Mayor o’ Ballarat, or some such place, an’ cannot mak’ enough ov his missus and bairns, they say.
‘There’s some women mevvies,’ added ‘the Heckler’ in conclusion, ‘who wouldn’t have pardoned their man, but she was one o’ the sort that are just faithfu’ ti death—nowt can tarr’fy them aff, an’ it’s fair providential that it should be so, for there’s many men noo livin’ who wud just have been iv hell lang syne else.’
‘Men are kittle cattle enough,’ replied ‘the Heckler’ oracularly, from his position of vantage on the top of a gate, to some question of mine concerning an indignation meeting held recently to protest against some matter about which no two people could give a like account; ‘but they’re nowt ti what womenfolk is. Ye can get roond most men easy enough if ye’ve a bit tax.’
‘Tax?’ I queried aloud, somewhat mystified. ‘What tax? not rates an’ tax——’
‘Gan on wi’ thoo—rates an’ taxes be d——!’ retorted the oracle swiftly. ‘No, nowt ti do wi’ them things; just tax, or tacts, mevvies it is, meanin’ a pleasant way wi’ ye, a bit touch o’ the cap when the manager’s vext wi’ ye, a turn o’ management when a drunken man wants ti fight ye for nowt at aal, ye ken, an’ sae forth. Wow, but ye can fettle most things amangst men wiv a little o’ that social lubricant, but wi’ women it’s different aaltigether; tax is nae use wi’ them; it’s just throwin’ pearls before swine.’
‘Holloa!’ I interrupted again. ‘What would the missus say to that?’
‘Not hevin’ heard it, she’ll say nowt,’ retorted ‘the Heckler’ severely.
‘Well, as I was aboot to say when thoo forgot theeself, and disturbed the meetin’ wi’ yor interruptions, most men has foibles—some’s dog-men like myself, some’s book-men, some’s gard’ners, some’s beer-barrils, an’ sae forth, an’ if ye mind this ye can get what ye want usuallies oot o’ them. But women’s a different breed aaltigether. They divvn’t care for the same things as men, an’ ye cannet get roond them, I’s warn’d, for they elwis gets roond ye instead. A man has no ambitions till he’s married, Maistor John. Mevvies he’s keen aboot this, an’ that, an’ ’tother thing, but that’s nowt. Noo, woman’s just chockfull ov ambitions aal her life long, an’s nivvor, no, nivvor, satisfied from her cradle tiv her grave, an’ even then she’s wantin’ fower horses tiv her hearse. Tak’ a wee girlie for an instance: she’s elwis wantin’ new claes; then she’s wantin’ a man, then bairns, then a hoos ov her own, then a better cloak than Mariarann nex’ door; an’ when she gets them aal she’s not satisfied, not one little bit, but’s warse than ivvor.
‘Noo I’ll gie ye an instance o’t.
‘Ye’ll dootless mind havin’ seen or heard tell ov Tom Archbold, yence fore overman here i’ the aad pit, a great, big, buirdly man, champion hewer o’ the colliery at one time, who aye took the lead i’ the village at every bit sport, an’ carry-on, an’ jollification that might be gannin’ on at any time.
‘Well, there was a little wee bit lassie ov aboot twenty-five years ov age, who had been married yence, but had lost her man iv an accident doon the pit—a fall o’ stone, ye ken—an’ nae sooner has she buried him than she’s on the look-oot for anither mate.
‘Well, bein’ the littlest woman i’ the village, she natorally—such bein’ woman’s human nature—tak’s a fancy for the biggest man iv it, meanin’ Tom Archbold, an’ she gans for him straight awa.
‘Ye’ll hev seen a setter dog workin’ for a partridge or a rabbit iv a rough grass field, mevvies. Weel, it was just the same method o’ procedure wiv her. She gets a scent o’ what she was wantin’; she draws upon him up wind; then she gets a tip-toe, steals tiv him till her breath’s fair upon him, an’ the man’s done—fair done—clean copped, and it’s “for better an’ warse till death do us part.”
‘So it was wi’ Lizzie an’ Tom.
‘Tom was a weeda (widower), an’ on the look-out for anither missus, an’ havin’ had a great big woman for his first—a proper marrow ov himself i’ size an’ shape—an’ not havin’ been ower well satisfied wiv his venture, he thinks he’ll try a smaller article for his second lott’ry.
‘Well, Tom was elwis very free an’ open wiv his conversation, an’ mevvies Lizzie, she gets ti hear ov it; but she pretends ti tak’ no notice o’ Tom when she passes along the Raa,[12] or meets Tom i’ the street. She just sails past him, noo wiv head i’ the air, again wiv her eyes upon the ground, mournfu’ like for the loss of her man, an’ Tom becomes quite bewitched by her manners, for she was a fair contrast wiv Bella, who had ti tarrify him wiv a summons from the pollis at the finish before she could get him ti marry her i’ chorch.
‘Well, she bags him clivvor at the finish, an’ they gets theyselves married wivoot more ado.
‘A week efter comes “pay-Friday,”[13] an’, natorally, quite apart from the “celebration of his nuptials,” as the newspaper cheps say, he gets hissel’ as boosy as can be, what wi’ standin’ treat, an’ bein’ treat an’ aal, an’ efter closin’ time it was wi’ some difficulty that me an’ my marrer gets him along home.
‘We knocks on the door, an’ we assists him in, an’ he staggers up tiv his missus, who was sittin’ iv her armchair knittin’, an’ tries ti gie her a bit chuck under the chin. “Ho—way——,” he stutters, “Lizzie, maa lass, an’ put us ti bed!” an’ stoopin’ down iv a staggerin’ way ti kiss her loses his balance, an’ flops doon unexpected on the floor. “Ye needn’t wait,” Lizzie says tiv us, haughty-like, takin’ no notice o’ Tom, an’ sae oot we gans, an’ leaves them. But we just stops a minute ootside ti hear Lizzie gie him his gruel; an’, wow! but she let him have it, an’ no mistake! “Thoo great flamin’ drunken lubbert!” says she, “comin’ home ti my hoos at this time o’ night, drunk as a lord, an’ only been married a week!” she cries. “Thoo mun just get used wiv it, maa lass,” says he solemnly from the floor; “for aa elwis gets drunk reg’lor on a pay-Friday; an’ it’sh maa hoos thoo ——, for aa’s maistor,” he says, thinkin’, mevvies, he mun assert hissel’ even if he has had his gills.
‘“Put thoo ti bed?” cries she. “Wey, I’ll not touch thoo, nor let thoo touch me nowther till thoo’s sober again, an’s begged maa pardon.”
‘“Pardon-sh?” says Tom, an’ laughs, fair amused by her impittence. “Wey, if maa legs wesn’t sae wambly the night, I’d larn thoo a lesson, thoo ——”
‘“Get up, an’ try, thoo sponge o’ beer,” she says, an’ snaps her fingers iv his face. “Get up, an’ try,” cries she again. “I daur thoo ti;” an’ she actually has the impittence ti stir him wiv her foot. Just fancy that! A yard an’ a half o’ petticoat, fair insultin’ upon a proper mountain ov a man like Tom! The door was a bit open, d’ye see, an’ my marrer an’ me could see them two comics quite plain.
‘Well, Tom, he thinks things is comin’ tiv a pretty pass if his missis is gannin’ ti clean her boots on him efter a week’s marryin’; so, much against his will, he pulls hissel’ tegither, an’ by the help o’ the bedpost gets on his feet.
‘“Wey,” cries Lizzie again, lookin’ him ower mair scornfu’ than ever, “thoo’s as unsteady on thy feet as a horse wi’ the staggers!” she says. “I could knock thoo doon wi’ one finger!”
‘“I bet-sh a sovereign thoo cannet; ay, an’ anither that I’ll drive yo’r lugs reet intiv yo’r heid wi’ one bat o’ my fist,” says he; an’ he puffs hissel’ oot as he searches for the coin, an’ spits on his hands iv a preliminary sort o’ way.
‘Then, sudden, she comes up tiv him, gies him a tap wiv her forefinger, unexpected like, straight on the breast, an’ Tom, taken unawares, lurches backward, catches his foot iv a bracket, crashes intiv a chair, an’ falls wiv a tarr’ble thump an’ a racket of furniture straight on ti the flaggin’. He gies a little lift ov his head as he looks up in a dazed way for a moment from the floor. Then he says, sinkin’ back again, “There’s been a fall o’ stone; gan an’ fetch the depity,” he says, then sort o’ dwams (swoons) awa.
‘Lizzie, she looks him ower for awhile, cool as a policeman wiv a lantern, then lifts a pillow off the bed, an’ puts it under his head as he lies stretched upon the floor. Next, she takes the boots off her man, an’ sae leaves him ti bide where he lies, whilst she gans ti bed her lane.
‘Next mornin’ Tom feels hissel’ as sick as a bad bat o’ the head an’ a wambly stomach can make a man, an’ “lies in” while his missus gies him warm things ti drink, an’ tends him like a bairn.
‘Well, she has him properly caught, for he has ti lie there idle the best part ov a week, an’ cannet work for another week efter that, the skelp he’d got frae the fall bein’ a serious affair, as it seemed.
‘When he gets up again he was sae savage at the chaff he gets aboot bein’ knocked doon biv his missus that he gans back tiv his hoos iv a hurry, tak’s off his belt, an’ is gannin’ ti strap her within an inch ov her life, when she says, “Tom, an’ who was it that’s been nursin’ thoo this last fortnight?” An’ she axes it quietly, facin’ him wivoot a tremor, her eyes fixed upon his.
‘Tom stands there wiv his arm uplifted; but though he was hot ti strike her, somehoo or ither, as he said efter, he was fair bested if he could manage it.
‘Well, that was aboot the beginnin’ an’ the end o’t, for she’d conquered him properly, an’ Mister Six-Foot-Two soon found oot he’d got a proper taskmaster for his missus, even though she was but a yard an’ a half high, an’ looked as though ye could have snapt her across yor arm. She didn’t knock him doon again, but she was elwis surprisin’ him inti startin’ things, an’ when he tired ov it she would scorn him a bit, an’ ask, “An’ what’s the good o’ bein’ a strong man if ye cannet show yor strength? Any fool can get drunk,” says she, “an’ lose his brass bettin’; but thoo’s a strong man, Tom, I’s warn’d, an’ I’ve bet Ned Lee’s wife a dollar that thoo can walk past the Pitman’s Arms on pay-Friday night wivvoot ever lookin’ inside!”
‘Well, that was the way o’t i’ Lizzie’s case. She soon had her Samson’s locks clipped short, an’ iv a few years’ time he becomes a depity, a back overman, an’ finally fore overman, has a hoos ov his own, an’ a whole raa (row) o’ cottages.
‘Some has different ways from others,’ reflected my companion, further, ‘but aal womenfolk’s ambitious.’
‘Noo, tak’ my own case—“the Heckler’s” —when I got married on the aad lady there was no nonsense aboot the business. “Ho-way,” I says, “will ye tak’ us, Betty?” for I kenned nicely beforehand she was the right sort for us, havin’ obsarved her previous, an’ walked oot wiv her a Sunday night or two. “Ay, an’ I will, Geordie,” she says thankfully, an’ as meek as skim milk; but for aal that I’ve been got the best o’ lots o’ time biv her ambition, an’ noo, here I is, wiv a fam’ly o’ seven, an’ the missus insistin’ upon Harry’s—that’s the eldest boy, ye ken—gannin’ ti the Grammar School ti parfect hissel’ as a scholar. Ay, wor Harry’s a proper scholar, I’s warn’d, but schoolin’s tarr’ble expensive.
‘An’ noo, I’ll just gie ye this bit advice, Maistor John. Divvn’t thoo get married unless thoo marries a heiress, for, I tell thoo, aal women’s ambitious, an’ ambition’s a tarr’ble expensive hobby.
‘Gox! yes, just fearful, Maistor John.’