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"Wait a minute," said Robbie, having captured the runaway, "wait a minute, Liza, and Dash will show you how to dance like Mother Garth." "Shaf on Dash!" said Liza, taking a step or two into the room and securing to that animal his emancipation by giving him a smack that knocked him out of Robbie's hands. "Do you think I've come here to see your tipsy games?"
The speaker was clearly a Cumbrian. "Shaf!" replied his companion, in a kind of whisper, "he's a pauchtie clot-heed. I'll have him at Haribee in a crack." The second speaker was as clearly a Scot who was struggling against the danger there might be of his speech bewraying him. "Well, you're pretty smart on 'im. I never could rightly make aught of thy hate of 'im." "Tut, man, live and learn.
"Here I've been churning and churning since morning, and don't seem much nigher the butter yet." "It's more than the butter that pests you," said Liza, with a wise shake of the head. "Yes; it must be the churn. I can make nothing of it." "Shaf on the churn, girl! You just look like Bessie MacNab when they said Jamie o' the Glen had coddled her at the durdum yon night at Robin Forbes's."
"Shaf! he hesn't a bit of nater intil him, nowther back nor end. He's now't but riffraff," said Matthew. Ralph Ray's peril and escape were incidents too unimportant to break the spell of the accident to the body of his father. Robbie Anderson turned in late in the evening. "Here's a sorry home coming," he said as he entered. It was easy to see that Robbie was profoundly agitated.
"Moreover, we should all do our best for the King," said the clergyman, "to bring such delinquents to justice." "Shaf!" cried Matthew Branthwaite from the other end of the table. The little knots of talkers had suddenly become silent. "Shaf!" repeated Matthew; "what did ye do yersel for the King in Oliver's days? Wilt thoo mak me tell thee?
I kin show ye places where ye kin git the color an' have the luke of a mine if ye haven't the gold. There's better men than you been fooled in these hills. I spint me a winter meself, cuttin' timbers fer me mine an' no more than a mile from this spot it was an' in the spring I sinks me shaf' an' not a dom ounce of gold do I git fer me pains!" "Well, by George! I'll speak to Fred about it.
'I wonder which shaf' she'll come down, asked Kullers in a tone befitting the place and occasion. 'You'd better go and watch your shaft, Pinter, said Dave, 'and Jim and I'll watch mine. 'I I won't, said Pinter hurriedly. 'I'm I'm a modest man. Then they heard a clang in the direction of Pinter's shaft. 'She's thrown her bottle down, said Dave.
"Shaf! dost thoo think yon fell's like a blind lonnin?" said Matthew. "Nay, but it's a bent place," continued Mr. Jackson. "How it dizzied and dozzled, too! And what a fratch yon was! My word! but Ralph did ding them over, both of them!" "He favors his father, does Ralph," said Matthew. "Ey! he's his father's awn git," chimed Reuben. "But that Joe Garth is a merry-begot, I'll swear."
"What has salt ?" "A-ah, an' there's where ye're ign'rant, young feller, wit' all yer buke l'arnin'. 'Tis gold I mean gold thot ye can show t' thim thot gits cur'us. But if it was me, I'd sink me shaf' in a likelier spot than what this spot is I wuddn't be bringing up durt like this, an' be callin' the hole a mine!
What it is to hev the gift o' gob and gumption!" "Shaf! It's kittle shootin' at crows and clergy," replied Matthew. The breakfast being over, the benches were turned towards the big peat fire that glowed red on the hearth and warmed the large kitchen on this wintry day. The ale jars were refilled, pipes and tobacco were brought in, and the weaver relinquished his office of potman to his daughter.
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