A Son of Hagar. Sir Hall Caine
you're reet clipt and heeled for sure," responded her companion.
Bessie's eyes sparkled with delight at the lusty compliment paid to her dancing, and she opened her cloak to cool herself, and also to show the glittering locket that hung about her neck.
"It's famish, this fashion," muttered the elderly cynic. "It must tak' a brave canny fortune."
"Shaf, man, the country's puzzen'd round with pride," answered his gossip. "Lasses worked in the old days. Now they never do a hand's turn but washin' and bleachin' and starchin' and curlin' their polls."
"Ey, ey, there's been na luck in the country since the women-folk began to think shame of their wark."
The fiddler made a squeak on two notes that sounded like kiss-her, and from a corner of the booth there came a clamorous smack of lips.
"I saw you sweetheartin' laal Bessie," said one of the fellows to another.
"And I saw you last night cutteran sa soft in the meadow. Nay, dunnot look sa strange. I never say nowt, not I. Only yon mother of Aggy's, she's a famous fratcher, and dunnot you let her get wind. She brays the lasses, and mappen she'll bray somebody forby."
While the dancing proceeded there was a noisy clatter of glasses and a mutter of voices in the neighborhood of the bar.
"The varra crony one's fidgin to see! Gie us a shak' of thy daddle!" shouted a fellow with a face like a russet apple.
"Come, Dick, let's bottom a quart together. Deil tak' the expense."
"Why, man, and wherever hasta been since Whissen Monday?"
"Weel, you see, I went to the fair and stood with a straw in my mouth, and the wives all came round, and one of them said, 'What wage do you ask, canny lad?' 'Five pounds ten,' I says. 'And what can you do?' she says. 'Do?' I says, 'anything from plowing to threshing and nicking a nag's tail,' I says. 'Come, be my man,' she says. But she was like to clem me, so I packed up my bits of duds and got my wage in my reet-hand breek pocket, and here I am."
The dancing had finished, and a little group was gathered around the fiddler's tub.
"Come thy ways; here's Tom o' Dint conjuring, and telling folk what they are thinking."
"That's mair nor he could do for the numskulls as never think."
"He bangs all the player-folk, does Tom."
"Who's yon tatterdemalion flinging by the newspaper and bawling, 'The country's going to the dogs?'"
"That's Grey Graham, setting folk by the lug with his blusteration."
"Mess, lads, but he'd be a reet good Parli'ment man to threep about the nation."
"Weel, I's na pollytishun, but if it's tearin' and snappin' same as a terrier that mak's a reet good Parli'ment man, I reckon not all England could bang him."
"And that's not saying nowt, Sim. I've heard Grey Graham on the ballot till it's wet him through to the waistcoat."
"Is that Mister Paul Ritson and Mistress Lowther just run in for shelter?"
"Surely; and a reet bonny lass she is."
"And he's got larnin' and manners too."
"Ey, he's of the bettermer sort, is Paul."
"Does she live at the parson's—Parson Christian's?"
"Why, yes, man; it's only naturable—he's her guardian."
"And what a man he is, to be sure."
"Ey, we'll never see his like again when he's gone."
"Nay, not till the water runs up bank and trees grow down bank."
"And what a scholar, and no pride neither, and what's mair in a parson, no greed. Why, the leal fellow values the world and the world's gear not a flea."
"Contentment's a kingdom, as folk say, and religion is no worse for a bit o' charity."
There was a momentary pressure of the company toward the mouth of the booth, where Gubblum Oglethorpe reappeared with his pack swung from his neck in front of him. The girls gathered eagerly around.
"What have you to-day, Gubblum?"
"Nay, nowt for you, my dear. You're one of them that allus looks best with nothing on."
"Oh, Gubblum!"
The compliment was certainly a dubious one.
"Only your bits of shabby duds—that's all that pretty faces like yours wants."
"Oh, Gubblum!"
The peddler was evidently a dear, simple soul.
"Lord bless you, yes; what's in here," slapping his pack contemptuously, "it's only for them wizzent old creatures up in London—them 'at have faces like the map of England when it shows all the lines of the railways—just to make them a bit presentable, you know. And there is no knowing what some of these things won't do to mak' a body smart—what with brooches and handkerchers and collars, and I don't know what."
Gubblum's air of indifference had the extraordinary effect of bringing a dozen pairs of gloating eyes on the strapped pack. The face of the peddler wore an expression of bland innocence as he continued:
"But bless you, I'm such a straightforward chap, or I'd make my fortune with the like of what's here."
"Open your pack, Gubblum," said one of the fellows, Geordie Moore, prompted by sundry prods from the elbow of a little damsel by his side.
The "straightforward chap" made a deprecatory gesture, and then yielded obligingly. While loosening the straps he resumed his discourse on his own general ignorance of business tactics, his ruinous honesty, and demoralizing sense of honor.
"I'm not cute enough, that's my fault. I know the way to my mouth with a spoonful of poddish, and that's all. If I go further in the dark, I'm lost."
Gubblum opened his pack and drew forth a red and green shawl of a hideous pattern.
"Now, just to give you a sample. Here's a nice neat shawl that I never had no more nor two of. Well, I actually sold the fellow of that shawl for seven-and-sixpence."
The look of amazement at his own shortcomings which sat on the child-like face of the peddler was answered by the expression of mock surprise in the face of Paul Ritson, who came up at the moment, took the shawl from Gubblum's outstretched arms, and said in a hushed whisper:
"No, did you now?"
Geordie Moore thereupon dived into his pocket, and brought out three half-crowns.
"Here's for you, Gubblum; let's have it."
"'Od bless me!" cried the elderly cynic, "but that Gubblum will never mak' his plack a bawbee."
And Grey Graham, having disposed of the affairs of the nation and witnessed Geordie snap at the peddler's bait, cried out in a bitter laugh:
"'There's little wit within his powe
That lights a candle at the lowe.'"
Just then a tumult arose in the vicinity of the bar. The two cronies were at open war.
"Deuce take it! I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, and where are they now?"
"'Od dang thee! what should I know about your brass? You're kicking up a stour to waken a corp!"
"I had fifteen white shillin' in my reet-hand breek pocket, I tell thee!"
"What's that to me, thou poor shaffles? You're as drunk as muck. Do you think I've taken your brass? You've got a wrong pig by the lug if you reckon to come ower me!"
"They were in my reet-hand breek pocket, I'll swear on it!"
"What a fratchin'—try your left-hand breek pocket."
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