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"Sarves him right!" said Aunt Chloe, indignantly. "He'll get wus nor oneasy, one of these days, if he don't mend his ways. His master'll be sending for him, and then see how he'll look!" "He'll go to torment, and no mistake," said little Jake.
"Who was in the hall when you went down, Robert?" said my uncle sternly. "Nobody, sir. I know she was, sir, for she called through the stairs to me, and she says, 'Master'll hear you, Robert. You see, sir, Jane and me didn't know as it was so late, and we was frightened when we heard the clock strike half-past eleven." "That will do, Robert," said Uncle Jo.
Soames stopped; he felt half-choked, whether because he had come upstairs too fast, or for some other reason. He he himself had never never been asked to.... He heard his father's voice, as though there were a pin in his mouth, saying: "Who's that? Who's there? What d'you want?" His mother's: "Here, Felice, come and hook this; your master'll never get done."
"Now that I'm rid of that there house," said she, "I'll begin to perk up. I ain't got nothing left to worry me. I'm ready for whatever blessings the dear Master'll provide. My pastor tells me I'm the finest example of Christian fortitude he ever Saw. But" and Mrs. Tucker spoke with genuine modesty "I tell him I don't deserve no credit for leaning on the Lord.
"Are things right in the mill?" she said, testing her. A shadow came on her face; her eyes wandered uncertainly, as if her weak brain were confused, only for a moment. "They'll come right!" she said, bravely. "The Master'll see to it!"
Morel lay in bed, listening to the rain, and the feet of the colliers from Minton, their voices, and the bang, bang of the gates as they went through the stile up the field. "There's some herb beer behind the pantry door," she said. "Th' master'll want a drink, if he doesn't stop." But he was late, so she concluded he had called for a drink, since it was raining.
'You might as well be married to me at once! jested Perfishka, giving the cook a dig in the ribs with his elbow. 'No fear! the master'll never come back to us; and here I shall be bored to death all alone! A year passed... a whole year: no news had come of Panteley Eremyitch.
Suddenly the keeper passed them at a trot. "Who'm they to combe-bottom for Lard's sake? Master'll be crazy," he said. "Poachers simly," Stalky replied in the broad Devon that was the boy's langue de guerre. "I'll poach 'em to raights!" He dropped into the funnel-like combe, which presently began to fill with noises, notably King's voice crying: "Go on, Sergeant! Leave him alone, you, sir.
"Got you now," said the leader of the little party. "You, Tom, we can manage him. Get out, will you, dogs! Here, take them with you. Run to the mine hut, and get some rope to tie him. Be as smart as you can. The master'll give us something decent for a job like this."
He was relieved when, at megaphoned directions, an elderly fop came to whirl her off in the dance. Her last speech was: "That poor Henshaw the gelatin master'll have megaphone-lip by to-night." He was left alone at his table. He wondered if they might want a close-up of him this way, uncompanioned, jaded, tired of it all, as if he would be saying: "There's always the river!"
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