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Updated: May 31, 2025
Yare honest fellowes; goe to and go to, I say and I sait agen, yare honest fellowes and shall not be unrewarded: looke you, theres for you and be but sylent in't. Grimes. As is my instrument, Sir. Coods me! what, have they torne away the back of your satteen Doublet? the Canvas is seene. Lov. Umh, no, but they have stolne my velvet Jerkin. Grimes. I, and dam'd your Dublet. Lov.
The rest of the year you may ever find me five doors from the church of Our Lady, where I would from my heart that I was at this moment, for there is no air like Norwich air, and no water like the Yare, nor can all the wines of France compare with the beer of old Sam Yelverton who keeps the 'Dun Cow. But, out and alack, here is an evil fruit which hangs upon this chestnut-tree!"
"Come out, Yare," he said, quietly. "Any word? What word is arson, eh?" The man did not move. Holmes touched him with the stick. "Come out," he said. He came out, looking gaunt, as with famine. "I'll not flurr myself," he said, crunching his ragged hat in his hands, "I'll not." He drove the hat down upon his head, and looked up with a sullen fierceness. "Yoh've got me, an' I'm glad of 't.
Old Yare wandered through the great loom rooms of the mill with but one fact clear in his cloudy, faltering perception, that above him the man lay quietly sleeping who would bring worse than death on him to-morrow.
Ther' 's none knows o' that but yoh an' me. He's safe, Yare is, only fur yoh an' me. Yoh speak the wured an' back he goes to the lock-up. Fur life. D' yoh see?" "I see." "He's tryin' to do right, Yare is." The old man went on, trying not to be eager, and watching Holmes's face. "He's tryin'. Sendin' him back yoh know how THAT'll end. Seems like as we'd his soul in our hands.
And to show how strong she was, she got up and hobbled about to make the tea. He had not the heart to stop her; she did not want to die, why should she? the world was a great, warm, beautiful nest for the little cripple, why need he show her the cold without? He saw her at last go near the door where old Yare sat outside, then heard her breathless cry, and a sob.
It's a bad life, Joe Yare's; I wish 'n' 't would be better to the end" He stopped with a wistful look at Holmes, who stood outwardly attentive, but with little thought to waste on Joe Yare. The old coal-digger drummed on the fire-plug uneasily. "Myself, 't was for Lois's sake I thowt on it. To speak plain, yoh'll mind that Stokes affair, th' note Yare forged? Yes?
"Yare," said the tall youth vaguely. Along the rows of cots, when Fuselli got back to the barracks, men were talking excitedly. "There's hell to pay, somebody's broke out of the jug." "How?" "Damned if I know." "Sergeant Timmons said he made a rope of his blankets." "No, the feller on guard helped him to get away." "Like hell he did. It was like this.
His fishing was done in the river Yare, which flowed through the estate of John Joseph Gurney, the Quaker-banker of Earlham Hall, two miles out of Norwich. It was here that he was reproached by the voice, "clear and sonorous as a bell," of the banker himself; not for trespassing, but "for pulling all those fish out of the water, and leaving them to gasp in the sun."
As he turned to go up the steps, he caught sight of something crouched underneath them in the dark, hiding from him: whether a man or a dog he could not see. He touched it. "What d' ye want, Mas'r?" said a stifled voice. He touched it again with his stick. The man stood upright, back in the shadow: it was old Yare. "Had ye any word wi' me, Mas'r?" He saw the negro's face grow gray with fear.
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