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Remember what you say the winters be up here such dreary months with no money coming in and all gwaine out to keep life in the things." "'Tis a black, bitin' business on the high farms caan't deny that." "Money flies so." "Then let some fly to a gude end. You knaw I'm a hard, keen man where other people be concerned, most times." His wife laughed frankly, and he grew red.
Doan't be feared, Phoebe. Forgive my noise. You mean so well, but you caan't hide your secrets, fortunately. Bless your purty eyes tu gude for me, an' allus was, braave li'l woman! "But no more of that no seekin' him, an' no speech with him, if that's the way your poor, silly thought was. My bones smart to think of you bearin' any of it.
But Tregagle caan't never do that; so he cries bitter sometimes, an' howls; an' when 'e howls you knaw the storm's a comin' to scatter the truss o' sand he's builded up." Barron followed the legend with interest. Tregagle and his victim and the charm of the pure child that saved one from the other filled his thought and the event to which Fate was now relentlessly dragging him.
"Oughts are noughts, onless they've strokes to 'em," declared Billy. "'Tis a poor lookout, for he'm the sort as buys experience in the hardest market. Then, when it's got, he'll be a pauper man, with what he knaws useless for want o' what's spent gettin' it. Theer's the thought o' Miss Phoebe, tu, Mrs. Blanchard, I should say. Caan't see her biding up to Newtake nohow, come the hard weather."
Nobody would buy two auld dogs, for that matter." "Though how a upland dog like Ship be gwaine to faace the fiery sunshine on furrin gawld diggings, I caan't answer.
Caan't 'e see what a draggle tail, low-minded pass all this be bringin' 'e to? Yet you'm a thinkin' creature an' abbun done no worse than scores o' folks who be tanklin' 'pon harps afore the throne o' God this blessed minute. You chose wrong; you said so, an' I was glad to hear 'e, for you never 'lowed even that much till this night. What then? Everybody chooses wrong wan time or another.
A masterful bwoy, like his faither before him, wild sometimes an' wayward tu, but not with women-folk. His faither loved in wan plaace awnly. He'll be true to your cheel whatever betides, or I'm a fule." "What's the use of that if he ban't true to himself? No, no, I caan't see a happy ending to the tale however you look at it. Wish I could.
"'Tis so plain as a pike, I think!" squeaked a hare-lipped young man of weak intellect who was also present. "Blanchard be right for sartain." "Theer! If soft Gurney sees my drift it must be pretty plain," said Will, in triumph. "But as 'tis awnly him that does, lad," commented Mr. Chapple, drily, "caan't say you've got any call to be better pleased. Go you back an' do the job, like a wise man."
"Thank yo'," he said stiffly and came in. "I caan't get oop wi' t' baaby. But there's a chair soomwhere." He found it and sat down. "Are yo' woondering why I've coom, Essy?" "Naw, Jim. I wasn't woondering about yo' at all." Her voice was sweet and placable. She followed the direction of his eyes. "'E's better. Ef thot's what yo've coom for." "It isn' what I've coom for.
No young womon need be frightened of speakin' to Peter Portgartha. And with that she spaaks at last, with a quick little gasp like a sob I'm thinking I can hear it at this minute 'Aw, she says, 'why caan't you leave me alone? 'Never be afraaid, I says, for I have my pride like other folk, 'I'll say no more. Peter Portgartha has no need to foorce his conversation where it ain't welcome."
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