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Updated: May 21, 2025
Kettle's boilin', isn't it, mother? You're not in a hurry, are you, mester?" "I reckon I can stop a twothree minutes," said the man. Mrs. Whiteside glanced at him sharply, and her mother clapped her hands together. "Ye're a Lancashire lad, for sure," cried she; "ye speak just same as our own folks up on the moor yon." He hesitated for a moment.
She was munching a square of bread and cold bacon, and she curtsied, exclaiming "It's never Mester Fores! That's twice her's been woke up this day!" "Who's there?" Rachel called out, and her voice had the breaking, bewildered softness of a woman's in the dark, emerging from a dream. "Sorry! Sorry!" said Louis, behind the door. "It's all right," she reassured him. He returned to the room.
"Are you going to resist the law?" "Nay, not I," said Hickathrift. "I am a good subject o' the king's. God bless him! But if yow says owt more again Mester Dick, I'll take thee by the scruff and pitch thee right out yonder into the bog." "Ay," snarled Dave, spitting in his hands and giving his staff a twist; "and I'll howd him down till he says he's sorry."
I'm not a tipplin' man nor a drunkard nobody can say it on me but I like a extry quart at Easter or Christmas time, as is nat'ral when we're goin' the rounds a-singin', an' folks offer't you for nothin'; or when I'm a-collectin' the dues; an' I like a pint wi' my pipe, an' a neighbourly chat at Mester Casson's now an' then, for I was brought up i' the Church, thank God, an' ha' been a parish clerk this two-an'-thirty year: I should know what the church religion is."
"Ay, he's in," says I; "but you shud mind an' gie fowk their richt names when ye're seeking them. Ye micht hae smeddum enough to say Mester Bowden, or Alexander Bowden. Your teacher michta tell't ye that." I gaed awa' doon the yaird to get Sandy, an' juist as I was gaen oot at the back door I heard ane o' the sackets sayin', "What's she chatterin' aboot?
An' th' devil's topmost agen. I've talked to my lass about it sometimes, an' I dunnot think I meant harm, Mester, for I felt humble enough an' when I talked, my lass she'd listen an' smile soft an' sorrowful, but she never gi' me but one answer.
I'm ashamed of you, Mester Dick, with your poor father lying theer 'most dead, and the missus a-nigh wherritted to death wi' trouble." "But he struck me," panted Dick. "And I'll do it again," cried Tom. "If you do, young Tom Tallington, I'll just pick you up by the scruff and the breeches and pitch you into the mere, to get out as you may; so now then."
"Oh, I see!" said the engineer. "You mean to go in here, and drive the fish to the net at the other end." "That's the way, Mr Marston," said Tom Tallington. "Wait a bit, and you'll see such a haul." "Perhaps of an empty net, Mr Marston," said Dick with a grin. "Perhaps there are none here." "You set astarn, mester," said Dave.
"And if he can't," cried Farmer Tallington, "he'll die like a rat in a corner, biting, so look out. He's got that long gun of his loaded and ready for the first man who goes up to yon hut, and that man arn't me." "I will go up first," said the squire quietly; "and he will not dare to fire." "Bud he hev dared to fire, mester," said the wheelwright.
At length he rose from the turf and stood up, looking out over the graves into the soft light beyond with a strange, wistful sadness. "Well, I mun go now," he said slowly. "Good-neet, Mester, good-neet, an' thank yo' fur listenin'." "Good night," I returned, adding, in an impulse of pity that was almost a passion, "and God help you!"
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