Chapter II: Front Matter (2)

'The door shuts, and Mistress Dennington turns slowly to the fire, her eyes glued to them letters burning blackly amongst the coals. As she watches she takes a cigarette from a box on the mantelshelf, lights it, and I heard her say to herself, "You fool!" then she smokes a puff or two and again she says, "You fool!" and therewith taps her foot smartly on the floor.'

'But what do you think she meant by "fool"?' I here interrupted.

'Well,' replied Jake slowly, 'I've often asked myself that very question, and what I believe she meant was something o' this sort: "Fool not to take your chance--and such a chance!--when you had it, and Fool again, for not knowing me better than to think that of me when 'twas too late."'

'And now one more question,' I said, for Jake was preluding with his weapon once again, evidently anxious to commence another bout. 'Did you ever tell the Squire?'

'No, not exactly,' replied he, 'but I gave him a hint, and bank-notes wouldn't have bought that rapier after that, and there it still hangs in Dennington Hall in the armoury, I believe, though I haven't been there since the Squire died and I set up as a Maître d'Armes in Oldcastle here. The mistress, though, she's still alive, but she never cared for Northumberland--"so dull," says she, and goes and diverts herself in London town. And now no more talk. Gardez-vous, M'sieur--en garde, s'il vous plaît,' and with a smile he struck my foil upon the floor.

'T'OWD SQUIRE'

'No, I never saw him, not the old Squire--"t'owd Squire," as they called him; but grandfather, he was thick with him, bein' the oldest farmer in the dale an' pretty nigh a gentleman hisself in those days; he was master of the 'ounds, d'ye see, when they was a trencher-fed pack--that was before Squire Heron took them over to t' new kennels at The Ford.

'Well, I done some pretty fair jumps myself at one time an' another in t' ring or steeple-chasin', but 'twas nowt to what he done, not even when a mare I was ridin' jumped over a wall an' fifteen feet into t' quarry t' other side.

'There's a pretty tidy place at t' bottom o' that field'--pointing to a low-lying, marshy expanse on the left that rose at the end to a high bank--'that he jumped one afternoon in cold blood which five out of six wouldn't have touched in warm, but at t' end of his time he was reckless--almost to touch on madness, so grandfather always said. But if ye'll bide here three minutes till I've seen the mare looked to properly I'll tell ye a tale of t' Squire--same as grandfather told it me.'

So saying Jack Skelton cantered round to the farm, where he was now employed as horse-breaker and showyard rider, while I strolled down to view the leap at the end of the field till he was free to join me. I could see The Ford opposite to me as I walked along--a square keep flanked with castellated wings rising proudly amongst its trees beyond the winding river in a circle of fir-clad hills.

'The old Squire's' daughter lived there now with her husband, who had taken her name on his marriage, but they were childless, and the ancient race of Herons seemed destined to become extinct.

Arrived at the bank I saw a formidable gulf open below me, with a soft and rotten landing on the further side, some fourteen feet across, the space between oozy with marsh mud and choked drains. '"All hope abandon ye who enter here,"' I quoted aloud, just as Jack Skelton came up to me.

'Ay,' he chuckled, 'it would be a job for a contractor to get a horse an' man out o' that, an' after that I'll lay odds but the laundry-maid would give her notice.

'It was a great big, seventeen hands horse he had that he jumped it with--an ugly devil to look at, light roan in colour, but up to any weight an' absolutely fearless. All ye had to do, as grandfather used to say, was to lay t' reins on his neck, and straight across country he'd go like a bird.

'He hadn't always been such a fierce one to go, hadn't t' Squire, and what changed his temper was what I was goin' to tell ye.

'There was a woman in it, d'ye see, an' that woman his wife. When first they was married no couple in broad Yorkshire was happier, as folk thought. She was a handsome lass and clever at book-larnin' an' suchlike, ambitious, too, like the clever ones usually are; but at first she was all for sport an' huntin', same as t'owd Squire, and where he went she mostly followed him, bein' as well mounted as himself. As for t'owd Squire, he was t' happiest man alive in those days--used to slap grandfather on t' back an' cry, after a steaming run, t' fox's mask in his hand ready to tie on to his missus's saddle, "By ----, Skelton, but she's the straightest woman rider in England, whether in or out o' t' shires."

'Yet for all that his happiness was short-lived, for after a son was born to him Mistress Heron seemed to lose heart for huntin'--her narves, she said, had gone wrong with her; but grandfather always upheld that she'd grown tired of her husband. She was a clever woman, as I said, an' ambitious; an' 'twas reported that she'd been forced to marry wi' t'owd Squire by her mother in Lunnon town--he bein' as rich as "Creases"--whilst the man she really favoured hadn't a penny beyond what his wits might bring him in. For a bit the excitement of huntin' had been enough for her, an' spendin' t' Squire's brass, t' big house, an' t' novelty; but after t' son was born she grew dissatisfied an' took a dislike to her life. Consequence was that she took up with a young man called Cunliffe, that lived over at The Tower--right away on that hillside over there, about two miles west of us--ye can see it against trees from Heronsford easy.

'The place had been bought by his father, who made money in trade at Ironopolis, an' he'd just got himself elected into Parliament, an' was like to get on at it, 'twas said, bein' one of them ready-witted, oily-tongued chaps that never go quite straight, but gallop along t' roads an' sneak through gates, an' then swagger on at t' kill. Ay, there's none "who-oops" an' "tally-hos" louder than them.

'T'owd Squire, on t'other hand, was one of t' owd-fashioned sort, and said what he meant always, an' clapped an oath on t' back of it; hated Lunnon, an' Lunnon ways, lived for huntin' an' shootin' an' country pursuits, an' drank a bottle of port wine reg'lar every evenin' to his own cheek. He wasn't over well educated neither, havin' all his life lived almost entirely at home; no scholar savin' a vast knowledge of the stud-book, farriery, an' horse-breedin', which was a sort o' larnin' that Mistress Heron didn't care a button about. Well, things went gradually askew between the two, she always wantin' fresh company in t' house, an' him hatin' society ways like poison.

'Amongst others she took up with was this young Member o' Parliament, Cunliffe, an' often he would be over an' dinin' with them; he could sing a bit, an' she was fond of t' piano, an' they would play on together in t' drawing-room while t' Squire sat over his mahog'ny passin' t' bottle round, talkin' over t' 'untin', layin' wagers with his own particular cronies of the red-faced, good-hearted, rough-tongued, fox-'untin' Yorkshire style.

'Well, t'owd Squire couldn't stomach young Cunliffe at all; for in the first place he was a poor rider to 'ounds, never jumped owt if he could help it, was a mean chap with his brass, an' had a supercilious way o' talk about him that angered t' Squire fearful. Add to this that he was always comin' over to sweetheart his missus, an' you can imagine how ill the two men would agree.

'Well, one night they was sitting playin' cards after dinner, an' Mistress Heron was lookin' on at them. T' Squire was nowt of a scholar, as I said before, but he had a good head for cards, an' loved to take t' shekels off young Cunliffe, who hated losin', but was generally the one who had to pay up.

'It was a game they call Pickit they were playin'; grandfather told me--for in after days t' Squire let out a good bit of his troubles to my grandfather, havin' been playmates together, an' grandfather bein' a god-child o' t'owd Squire's father beside that--an' Cunliffe bein' flustered had forgot when it came to t' last two cards--there bein' a ticklish bit at stake--what had been played previously.

'He looked this way and that, then all of a sudden he catches Mistress Heron's eye, sees something in it that tells him somewhat, claps doon t' right card an' wins.

'T'owd Squire, he keeps extraordinary quiet, just gives one swift look round under his eyelids at his wife standin' there above him, an' says softly, "Ye've a wonderful memory, Mr. Cunliffe," says he, at which the other gets very red, an' begins to talk of getting home.

'"Mistress Heron and I," says t' Squire, "were talking on this afternoon about t' private steeplechase we're going to hold shortly in t' Park here, an' she was all for layin' out t' course for first two miles straight west till it almost touches Towers gates. 'It will just take inside of ten minutes from t' Ford,' says she, 'to Towers turn, and beautiful going all the way over grass with t' big jump an' t' black beck in t' middle of it.' 'Ay,' says I, 'and that will stop one or two that I know of--I'll lay a monkey.' 'Not a bit of it,' says she, 'not a bit; an' I'll take evens with ye that everybody tries it.'

'"Now, as Mistress Heron is going to ask ye to ride one of her nominations for her at the race, it might be helpful to ye to have a preliminary trial, an' as t' night is bright as day wi' moonlight, perhaps ye'd like a ride home to-night across country, an' I'll lay ye double of what ye've won to-night that ye don't get to your own gate-ends in, say, twelve minutes from t' Ford's paddock. An' ye can have your pick o' what's in my stable," adds t' Squire, as he looks from one to t' other of them, "while Mistress Heron an' I will watch ye from t' battlements an' take time for ye; or, of course, if ye're afraid," he adds, as Cunliffe, hemming an' hawing, says something about "not likin' to take a horse out at that time o' night," an' dwells heavy on the words, "we can send ye home in the landau, like a lady," says t' Squire.

'"If Mr. Cunliffe accepts your proposal to ride a horse for me in the steeplechase," interrupts Mistress Heron scornfully, "that is of itself sufficient to falsify your insinuation."

'"I shall be only too proud," cries Cunliffe at once, with a bow, "to ride for Mistress Heron."

'"Ay," says t' Squire, "an' t' night before a message will doubtless come to say that Mr. Cunliffe has suddenly been called away on important political business, an' he's much grieved to forego a pleasure he had been so much looking forward to."

'"You've said quite enough, sir," cries Cunliffe, red an' passionate; "kindly have your horse saddled--t' light-roan one for choice; for I take your wager an' will ride your horse home this night."

'T' Squire goes out to t' stable himself, gives his orders, an' in fifteen minutes' time t' horse is round at t' door.

'"Ye'll be wantin' a switch likely," says t' Squire, as he shows him downstairs, "an' if ye'll come into t' gun-room here, ye can take your pick o' crops, or cuttin' whips, or what ye will."

'T' room was dark, an' Cunliffe, he bumps up against a small pail o' something an' upsets it on his trousers and all over t' floor before t' Squire gets a candle lighted.

'"Never mind, never mind that," says t' Squire cheerily, "it's just nowt to matter; it's just for to try my hounds with to-morrow, an' shouldn't have been there. See, there's t' whip-stand; take your choice," says he.

'Cunliffe, he takes a cuttin' whip, an' jumps on t' horse without more ado, an' goes out into t' paddock with t' stud groom, who is to show him where to start from when t' Squire shouts "off" from the roof of the house.

'A minute or two later t' Squire shows himself on t' battlements, and Mistress Heron's there too, to see the sport.

'"Are ye ready?" rings out t' Squire's voice.

'"Yes," comes back t' answer.

'"Then off!" he shouts down and drops t' handkerchief.

'Away he goes at a full gallop straight across t' wide-spreading west park-land, then draws rein a moment as he approaches t' haha with a drop of five feet or so, perhaps. Just as he pulls up there comes a faint "you-yowin'," as of hounds upon a scent, from around t' corner of t' house.

'"Whatever's that?" cries Mistress Heron quickly, as she catches the sound of it.

'"Why, it's t' hounds," cries t' Squire, with a stabbing laugh. "I thowt it might help him t' jump t' black beck an' win his wager to have t' hounds after him, an' so it will, for there's a bit aniseed sprinkled on Gamecock's fetlock bandages, an' Cunliffe's stepped into some himself."

'"'Tis the deed of a savage!" says my lady, and with a proud contempt of him she steps away from his side as far as t' battlements will permit.

'Away go t' hounds wi' riotous music hot upon t' scent; on, forrard on they go, right over t' haha and up and across t' pasture beyond, at t' end of which, and beside t' beck, Cunliffe was galloping up an' down trying to find an easier place. It appears he hadn't, in his excitement, taken notice of t' hounds giving tongue, or looked behind him, but all of a sudden he perceives it, and halting his horse stockstill, looks behind him. Then it seemed to flash upon him what's up, and he forces back t' horse some twenty yards or so--first hounds racing towards him about hundred yards behind--rams in t' spurs, cuts him with t' whip, and claps him at it. Gamecock tries it bravely, and leaping high into the air just lands on t' further bank, but short a bit, and on t' soft edge, and pecks forward badly on his head, sending Cunliffe somersaulting over like a shot rabbit.

'"T' bet's won!" shouts the Squire, marking t' horse pick himself up before his rider and gallop away by himself over t' far field; "t' damned cockney cannot ride at all."

'"Yes, you've won your bet," replies my lady, gathering her skirts together and holding them close as she passes him by, "but possibly you may have lost remembrance that you were born a gentleman," and with that she proudly turns her back and sweeps away down t' stairs.

'Well, t' hounds couldn't get across t' beck, and t' Squire's first whip was ready wi' t' horn to fetch them back again; so Cunliffe was safe enough, but sorely damaged an' bruised, an' 'twas a full week before he left his house, when straight he goes abroad on foreign travel.

'Things gradually went on from bad to worse twixt t' Squire and Mistress Heron after that night's play; she used to lament for Lunnon an' its fashions, an' on t' last night of all she set t'owd Squire's blood blazin' by sneerin' at "country yokels" and their drunken ways.

'"Why, damn t' ----!" cries he, quite forgetting himself, and using a word more suitable to t' kennels than t' drawing-room, "ain't we been here since King Alfred? An' what can ye want more than that?"

'Swift as fire she answers him, "One might wish that they were gentlemen," says she, an' cold an' contemptuous she walks past him out of the drawing-room and up into her own room, where she orders her maid to pack up for her at once, an' 'tis but an hour later when she drives away in t' carriage an' never sees t'owd place again.

'Well, they separate by law, an' shortly after, when t' bairn comes to live with his father, Mistress Heron gets much taken up with one of those father parsons, famous as a preacher in Lunnon at that time.

'Finally, she goes into a sort of retirement and becomes head of a sisterhood shortly, which gets to be very famous for its Good Samaritan sort of deeds.

'Grandfather used to say that whatever she took up she would be sworn to do better than anybody else. "Fox-'untin' she learnt clever in six months' time, an' if ye can larn that ye can larn owt," says he.

'As for t'owd Squire, he hunts harder than ever he had done before; an' nowt, positively nowt, can stop him across country, nor liquor stagger him, so that many thought he was heartier an' happier than ever he had been before.

'His son, as he grew up, was a bit trouble to him, certainly, as he was a wild lad--just like himself, but with a touch of his mother's pride, so that it was just as well when he went into t' army an' was sent to t' Indies.

'Well, time sped on, and t'owd Squire's hair was turnin' gray, when news came that his wife--Sister Eva, as they called her--had died suddenly in her retreat or convent.

'Up goes t' Squire to Lunnon without a word, an' when the chief mourners--all of them ladies of t' sisterhood, in their white dresses--were liftin' up t' coffin ropes to carry it to t' graveside, an' ancient gentleman, clad in a queer, long, bottle-green tail-coat, with a high stock and beaver hat on t' back of his head, comes forward an' quietly takes hold of t' head ropes.

'T' sisters remonstrate with him, and ask him who he is. "Mesdames," says he, "I was her unworthy husband," and he doffs his hat as he speaks, and without another word spoken helps to carry her to her grave.

''Twas said that they were t' same clothes he had worn on his wedding-day.

'It would be some months after this that my grandfather was dinin' with t'owd Squire, after t' opening meet of t' season.

'"Here's to fox-huntin'!" cries he, after t' cloth was removed; an' a bit later he rises solemnly in his chair, an' he says, "And here's to a saint in heaven!" an' as he drinks it down grandfather sees a tear tricklin' on his cheek.

'Little by little he tells him all about t' quarrel and what had completed it: "And she was right, by G----!" cries t' Squire at the end of it, "as she always was, though I was too proud to say so then; and now it's too late, for she's a saint in heaven."

'That was the only time he spoke of her; but for all that, grandfather said it was clear that he was just broken-hearted, was t' poor owd Squire, even though five minutes after he was challenging him to ride for a fiver when 'ounds should find on t' morrow's mornin'.

'T'owd Squire never went better in his life, they said, than he did that day; but just at t' close of it his horse made a mistake over some timber, and he came a cropper in a ploughed field, with his horse on top of him, and had three of his ribs broken.

'It was a baddish fall; but though the doctors pulled him through he never got the better of it, and was taken away before t' season was out; and he was glad to go, was poor owd Squire, for he said he believed she had forgiven him, but he couldn't rest till he knew for certain.'

AN 'AMMYTOOR' DETECTIVE

'Tell me about that mysterious affair of "Tom the Scholar," and Jack Jefferson's sudden death, and how you ran him to ground when suspicion had given up the chase. If all I have heard is true, you ought to have been at Bow Street, high up in the Criminal Investigation Department. Tell me,' I said again, 'how you came to play the part of amateur detective.'

'There was nowt o' the ammytoor aboot it,' retorted 'the Heckler' with aggressive dignity, 'it was a proper perfessional bit o' wark, an' the pollis was fine put oot that they hadn't had a hand in it. Wey, there was Scott, wor pollis; he came to us an' he says, "If ye had only tell't me about it I could hev made a job on 't," says he, "'stead o' lettin' him gan an' commit a fellor, d' y' see?"

'"No," says I, "I divvn't see; it was him that done it, an' it was us as copped him, an' if I hadn't taken it intiv hand, wey, thoo would have still been usin' long words an' followin' up yor clue like an aad blind man followin' efter his dog," says I, "for I've no sort o' notion o' the pollis; they nivvor finds out nowt for themselves, ye hev elwis ti tell them what it is ye want done, an' then at the finish gan an' do it yorsel'."

'No, no; the pollis is just what the lawyer chaps call "accessories efter the fac'"--meanin' they comes up ti ye when aal's ower an' done wi', like the bairns at the school-sports, each one expectin' a prize.

'Well, as I was sayin', I copped "Tom the Scholar" aal maa lane, an' I doot whether anyone else could hev done it but me. I had suspected him a while back, for he was a mistetched[4] chap, ye ken, one o' the sort that has a bit grudge against everythin', an' vicious same as horses is sometimes, unforgettin', unforgivin'--just a nasty disagreeable beggor, ye ken.

'He was a scholar, though--"Tom the Scholar" they called him--an' was aye busy wi' books, nivvor had his head oot o' them, whether at the Institute or at aad Mistress Swan's, where he lodged.

'Efter a bit he takes up wi' courtin' Mary Straughan, her who got married on Jack Jefferson, an' I b'lieve she had a mind for him once, but not for long, for he frightened her biv his strange ways, an' a passionate way o' talk he had, an' she gave up walkin' wiv him an' took up wi' Jack instead--a south-country chap that had come frae Yorkshire--a big, burly, thick-headed sort o' chap, but tarr'ble good-natured.

'Well, Tom, he takes it varry badly, an' just before they gets "called" i' church he tarrifies Mary wi' vague threats as ti what'll happen if she dares ti wed wi' Jack. Noo, Tom was a "spirritualist," ye ken, as weel as a scholar, an' he swears that the spirits forbade the match, an' would be properly savage if they was disobliged.

'She was a narvious sort, was Mary, an' she tell't Jack ov't, an' Jack, he says, iv his queer clipp't Yorkshire way o' talk, "T' spirrits be d----d!" says he; "an' if that softy Tom comes interferin' 'twixt thoo an' me, I'll make him softier than ever," he says, shakin' a great big hairy fist that looked like a bullock's head.

'Well, they gets theirsel's married wivoot askin' leave either o' the "spirrits" or o' Tom, an' as nowt happened, an' Jack forbye was tarr'ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o' Tom an' his "spirrits" an' aal.

'They was tarr'ble happy those two, an' I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin' as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel', an' not what I is now--checkweighman, an' half ov a magistrate as well, bein' vice-chairman o' wor lokil District Council[6]--an' he cries, "Geordie," he says, "Geordie, man, I's that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There's nowt I couldn't do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I's that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t' sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an' lay t' fortnight's wages that I'd best him too. I could sing, I b'lieve," he says, an' wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: "Ay, an' I could even put up a bit prayer--though I's not much ov a Churchman--almost as weel as t' priest himself. An' I'll tell thoo why. It's because Mary tells me that there's likely gawin' to be an addition to the fam'ly party sometime shortly. She's a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an' I'll lay it's twins." "I'll gie ye the best o' luck," says I, "but twins is tarr'ble expensive, for I've tried 'em," says I. "Man alive!" cries he, holdin' up his arm--a proper colossyum ov a limb--"look at that. If that cannot win bread for a dozen o' twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas," says he.

'He was a fine brave man,' continued 'the Heckler' slowly, 'an' I can see him still standin' on the heapstead, an' I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin' high i' the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i' the cage that mornin' for the last time together--just as full o' life an' vigour he was as thoo is noo--but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i' this world.

'It was the vary next mornin' that he was killed, but I wasn't doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an' I was laid up i' bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,' and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.

'Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin' been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother's gettin' a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit.

'Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an' he an' the galloway was comin' doon an incline wiv a full tub, an' the galloway, hevin' bolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an' came blindly tearin' along this side an' that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner. He was fearfu' knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his head bashed in bi the tub's wheels, an' there he lay, dead as mutton.

'The crowner comes doon an' sits on the body, an' the jury bring it in "Death by mis'dventure" slap off, bein' iv a hurry likelies ti get oot for their dinners, an' there the whole thing would have ended wiv a buryin' an' a gettin' up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus an' the bairn; ay, that's hoo it would have ended up had it not been for "the Heckler."

'I wasn't allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it oot aal maa lane--mevvies havin' my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit; anyways, I lay there quiet i' bed an' found I could think it aal oot like Gladstone; ay, an' I tell thoo that Gladstone an' Horbert Spencor together cudn't have thought harder than I did at that period o' time, nor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a bit brag, mevvies, but it isn't, by Gox! it's just the naked truth.

'Well, there I lay between the sheets wi' my "linin's" on, detarmined that if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us frae findin' it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask Harry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it happened.

'Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi' tea, an' spice loaf, an' jam an' aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an' then I axes him a few supernumerary questions.

'"Thoo'll ken 'Tom the scholar?'" I axes him--"him that's a stoneman doon the pit, an' gans in for spiritualism an' sich like for his hobby an' pastime?" "Ay," he says, "I ken him nicely. Wey, I been at some ov his 'seeantics,' or whativvor it is he calls them, an' I have the makin' ov a fine 'meejum,'" he says, "for I can parsonate folks ov aal kinds, males an' females, wivoot any distinction o' sexes."

'"Ay!" says I, interruptin' him wiv a sort ov admirin' surprise i' my tone o' voice, "can thoo, noo? Wey, thoo's a clivvor one, that's what thoo is."

'"Ay," says he, quite enlarged at the thought, "an' there's some folk says that I isn't quite right i' the head, but they couldn't parsonate Alexander the Great--him that the sword-dancers sing aboot--like as I can. Could they, noo?"

'"No," says I, "not they. They're not scholars enough for that, an' mevvies they would be gliffed at it as weel. Dis thoo nivvor get a gliff at the spirits?" I axes, careless like.

'"Not while I's parsonating, I divvn't, but whiles when I's doon the pit I gets a gliff," says he; "it's sae dark an' lonesome i' places."

'"Dis Tom ivvor try to make thoo parsonate doon i' the pit?" I axes him, "for Tom, bein' stoneman, 'll come across thoo at times drivin' yor galloway."

'"Ay, I've seen him doon below," he says, "though he nivvor talked on aboot parsonating, but usuallies passes us by wivoot sayin' nowt, for Tom's a vary distant sort o' chap, thoo knaas."

'"But sometimes mevvies he would speak wi' thoo when he passed thoo, an' other folks wasn't aboot? Did he ivvor talk on aboot the spirits ti thoo at all? That day the galloway ran away, did he speak wi' thoo that mornin'? Mevvies he did, laddie, an' mevvies he told thoo not ti speak aboot it lest the spirits wouldn't like it, or some such kind ov argument," says I, insinuatin' it tiv him like one o' thae lawyer chaps iv a wig.

'"Ay, he spoke tiv us that mornin', sure enough, sayin' as hoo he thought the spirits was vexed, for he had heard them callin' i' the pit itself through the darkness, an' he wanted ti knaa whether I had heard the voices same as himself or not. Well, I hadn't heard nowt, nor had nivvor thought aboot spirits bein' doon the pit, but I gets a bit gliffed myself at that, an' a bit later I ackshally heard them speakin' aloud--sure an' certain," says he.

'"Did they gliff thoo just before the galloway ran away an' ran ower poor Jack Jefferson?" says I.

'"Ay," says he, "I got a gliff then, for I heard the spirits' voices shootin'[7] oot against us."

'"Gox!" says I, "to think o' that, noo! Wey, thoo gies us a gliff an' aal; an' what dis thoo hear them sayin'?" axes I.

'"'Here's the parsonator,' they shoots out aloud, 'that calls us frae wor rest. Lepp oot upon him, an' torment him! At him, Annexo!' or some such ootlandish name,--'at him, spirits aal!'"

'"Sae thoo starts awa' likelies wi' the galloway at a gallop, an' couldn't get him stopped on the incline?" I axes him.

'"No, no, I was ower flay'd mysel' ti do owt; but the galloway must have gotten a gliff at something. I mind I thought I saw a flash o' light just at the moment, an' the galloway he couldn't abide a sudden light across his eyes, he was that narvious; or mevvies it was the voice that gliffed him same as it did us; anyways, awa' aff he goes wivvoot me, an' dashes aff doon the incline wiv us chasin' him an' shootin', 'Woa, woo-h, Paddie; woo-ah, thoo daftie!'"

'"An' hoo far behind him dis thoo think thoo was when he come to the corner where he ran inti poor Jack? Did thoo see Jack theesel', or hear him shoot out as the galloway butted him?"

'"No," says he, "I nivvor seen him, an' I wasn't far behind the galloway nowther, for as soon as the tub got awa' frae the lines he couldn't travel vary fast, for it was loaded. Aal I could hear was the bumpity-bump o' the tub, then smash inti the wall--smash--smash--an' a crash as the tub swung ower an' dragged the galloway wiv it. I can mind nae mair nor that, mistor," says he, at the end ov his tale, "for I fell slap ower Jack Jefferson's body i' the darkness, an' pitchin' full upon my head was knocked senseless, till they come along an' picked us up. An' that's the whole story, Mister Carnaby," says he, "an' I've done wi' the spirits, an' parsonatin', an' aal noo, for they're treacherous things, there's nae doot aboot it," says he.

'Weel, that was aal I could get oot ov him, sae I gives him some sweeties an' lets him gan, biddin' him not let on that I'd axed him any questions, ye ken, an' efter that I lay i' bed thinkin' it aal ower an' makin' up a plan o' campaign for when "the Heckler" should be up an' aboot again.

'Efter aboot another three days I was allowed oot by the doctor wiv a sort o' lampshade ower my eyelids, an' the next day bein' "pay Saturday," an' the pit idle, I detarmines within my ain mind ti gan doon maa lane an' hev a look round by myself; for it's no use trustin' anyone else when ye've got a job o' that calibry iv hand, ye ken.

'I kenned where the trajiddy had taken place, o' course, sae I detarmines ti gan ti the spot an' make a sarious of obsarvations. "First place," I says ti myself, "there winnot be much change i' the surroundin's, for it's a new drift in by there that they are drivin', wi' 'Tom the Scholar' an' his marrow, an' not many workin'; an', secondly, it's damp there wi' the salt water oozin' in through the rock, sae that footmarks will have a good chance ti stand a bit."

'Noo, "Scholar Tom" had a tarr'ble large footprint, ye ken, an' it was that I was i' search o', for I had my suspicions o' what might have happened, an' I was convinced that that d----d, mistetched beggor was at the bottom o' poor Jack Jefferson's sudden endin'--ay, an' whenivvor I thought o' that fine, brave chap an' his bright face an' his happiness, I says ti myself, "There'll be no rest nor pleasure nor nowt for 'the Heckler' till the mystery's discovered; an' it's yor job ti discover it," I says ti myself.

'He was bound ti have been there, for, o' course, it was him as shooted out that nonsense at Harry that had gliffed him, an' dootless it was him that had flashed his davy i' the galloway's eyes.

'Jack, d'ye see, would have been lousin' off frae his wark an' walkin' doon the drift at that time when the galloway started off; but what beat me was that Jack couldn't hev got oot o' the way i' time, bein' fine an' active, grand at hearin' and seein', an' ne fool forbye that.

'Noo, just when I had detarmined upon this i' maa mind a sort ov an inspiration takes us aal ov a sudden. "Wey divvn't thoo take that driver lad alang wi' thoo ti show thoo exactly where the trajiddy happened?" it says tiv us just as thoo it was a real, genu-ine voice i' my inside. "Sink me!" thinks I, "it's a tarr'ble clivvor idea, an' sae I will."

'"Has thoo anything else ti add ti that, Inspiration?" I axes it, an' shortlies efter it says, "Divvn't thoo trust ower much ti what Nicholson says, nor tell him o' yor plan beforehand, for he's i' Tom's power, an' tarrified ov him," it says again.

'"Gox!" thinks I, "but this is the champion; wey, I's as good a spiritualist as Tom himself."

'"There's one last question I must ax thoo," says I, for I hadn't properly thought beforehand o' the difficulty o' gannin' doon the pit on "pay-Saturday," an' that is: "Hoo i' the warld can us gan in-bye? for thoo kens that naebody but the furnace-man, engine-man, an' horse-keeper gans doon that day, an' if anyone else wanted ti, wey, he would have ti get leave frae the manager, an' even then he would have ti have a deputy alang wiv him. Answer us this, Inspiration," says I, "an' it's a clagger for thoo, I's warned."

'But, mevvies efter two minutes, it whispers back two words, "drift," an' "beer."

'"Drift?" I repeats, an' "beer?" An' then aal at onst I sees the implication, for I kenned the lodge-keeper at the head o' the drift nicelies, an', what's mair, I kenned what Sammy Cuthbertson, the local preacher, calls "the joint iv his harness" still better.

'Sae I gans up tiv him quietly, an' I says tiv him, "Geordy," says I, "hoo much o' the best beer will five bob procure iv an emergency?"

'"Five bob," says he, vary serious, "will buy aal but two gallons o' the best bitter, an' d---- the emergency," says he.

'"Dis thoo prefer it i' bottles, or iv a greyhen, or iv a pail--an' aal at onst?" says I.

'"Bottles is no use," says he, "wey, the corks alone will mevvies take a pint ti theirselves. Na, na, gie it ti me iv a pail for aal-roond drinkin'."

'"Well," says I, "thoo shall have it iv a pail if thoo'll just let us an' the lad here gan in doon by the drift for an hour ti investigate a private matter o' wor ain--just a visit ov inspection. No harm done, nobody need ken, an' up again within the hour, I'll promise thoo that," says I.

'Well, his face prolonged itself at that a bit. "But if it was kenned," says he, "I'd get my notice."

'"Nobody will ken but us three," says I; "an', look thoo, thoo shall have the pail at yor dinner to-morrow forenoon," says I.

'That did the business for him, I's warn'd, an' he promises ti oot wiv his key an' let us gan in by. Poor chap, though, he got his notice aal the same, though it wasn't my blame: it was because he was ower-greedy an' thought he could get another pailful oot o' somebody else later.

'Well, I says nowt ti Nicholson aboot gannin' doon the pit till the vary mornin', and then I gans along an' catches ahaud on him, an' says, "Ho-way,[8] thoo mun come along wiv us doon the pit, for I wants ti see the place o' the accident myself, an' I hev arranged aboot gannin' doon," I says. Well, he turns quite white at this, an' whines an' cries not ti gan; but I was res'lute wiv him, an' tarr'fies him wiv a hint ov a gaol if he winnot come doon and show us aal I axes him.

'Well, we went by the drift and straight doon ti the "Number 3, North," or "Joan" district, as we call it worsels, an' there we gropes aboot the trolley-way, just at the corner where the accident must have taken place, an' searched for footmarks.

'The lad, ye ken, must just have started frae the putter's flat wiv a full tub, an' aboot thirty yards doon he must have been gliffed. Hereaboots, iv a fenced place, Tom must have waited on Jack's "loosin' off" frae his wark, an' another ten yards further on is where the galloway must have run awa' off frae the rails. I had it aal mapped oot ready i' my mind, an' it was just the details I had ti fit in wiv it.

'There was mair tramplin' aboot than I had expected, what wi' the galloway's stumblin', the tub ploughin' alang through the dirt, an' the footprints o' the search-party that had come up ti the scene o' the casualty; but for aal that, I could see here an' there the marks o' Tom's big shoes, wi' the extry broad plates at heel an' toes he used ti wear.

'Mevvies it wasn't ower much ti see, but it heartened us up, for it conformed us i' wor opinions, especially the fact that wherever they was visible they was close in by the wall-side, as if he had been wishful ti hide himself as far as might be--a sort o' presumptuous evidence against him, as the lawyers call it.

'"I will have ti gan back ti bed again," I says ti myself, "ti think it aal oot properly, for though I haven't a doot about it myself, I'll have ti convince aal thae thick-heads o' judges at my lord's 'Size[9] before I gets him properly convicted, sae I must have it aal pieced oot an' put together like a bairn's puzzle-map."

'Well, we was slowly makin' wor way oot o' the passage when I hears something comin' up-by, creak, creakin' as it came. Weel, I's no coward, I's warn'd, an' I'll face any man livin' that ye like ti mention, but I got a fair gliff at that, for I couldn't make oot what it might mean--Nicholson an' us bein' the only folk aboot doon there. "Gox, it's Jack's ghost!" think I ti mysel iv a sudden sweat o' fear. Sae oot at once I turns my davy (lamp), an' the lad's, fearin' lest he might notice us, an' shrinks back inti the corner o' the wall as small as could be, with the lad tremblin' aal ower next us. Efter a bit I sees a wee glimmer o' light shakin' i' the darkness, then a shadow ov a man behind it, an' slowly, vary slowly, as if seekin' something, it mounts up the passage towards us.

'"Hist!" says I ti the lad iv a thick whisper, "just smear your face an' hands ower wi' clarts, or the ghaist will cop us," I says, an' grabbin' a handful I clarts his face an' hands iv an instant o' time; then I scrapes up a handful for mysel' an' aal, but i' reachin' oot for a good fill o' clarts my hands struck up against a sort ov a heavy bar o' some specie or other.

'I gied a bit haul at it, an' awa it comes up inti my hands--a small, heavy, but handy bit ov iron it was, mevvies about sixteen inches long, wiv a sort o' knob at the end o't.

'"I'll have a look at thoo later," says I, an' claps it inti my pocket wi' the one hand, whiles I clarts my face wi' the other. Meantime the creakin' thing was drawin' nigher an' nigher tiv us, but the light wiv it was tarr'ble dim, an' I couldn't have given it a name.

'On came the light an' the shadow, but the creakin' noise had stopped; 'stead o' that there was a squelch, squelch, as ov a man steppin' in an' oot' o' mud.

'It passed us biv a finger's breadth, an' I almost shouted aloud by way o' relief, for it was a real live flesh-an'-blood man, wiv a fouled davy, an' no ghost--for ghosts canna spit, I's warn'd.

'"D---- thoo!" I was just aboot ti shoot at him, comin' flayin' folk i' that fashion. "Who is thoo, thoo ----" when he stops short on a sudden, just round the corner above us, an' talks tiv himself oot loud. "Ay, it'll be just aboot here," he muttered, "that it fell," and I could have let flee a yell o' delight that would have brought a fall o' stone doon, for it was no other voice than "Tom the Scholar's" himsel'.

'"Thoo b----!" I says ti mysel', an' clenches my fist tight; "thoo b----! but I's copped thoo noo."

'"Tell ti me noo, Annexo," continues Tom, usin' the same furrin' sort o' talk as he had ti the lad; "tell ti me noo where it lies--the weapon that freed my destined bride frae unlawful arms. I mun hev it back, for there's a d----d chap i' wor village that they call 'the Heckler,'" he gans on, the impittent scoondrel that he was, "a daft feller that's mad aboot dogs an' sic' like nonsense, but he has his suspicions, an' mevvies might be dangerous, for he has been questionin' my meejum, Nicholson, the driver lad. Speak then, Annexo, speak, my beauty. Where lies my trusty weapon? Speak louder," says he again, impatient like, "for I canna hear i' the darkness."

'Just on that instant I gets another inspiration i' my insides, an' wivvoot mair ado I whispers oot loud iv a fine, feminine, and superfluous voice: "Search ti the right hand a bit lower doon, canny man," says I, "an' thoo'll find what thoo is wantin'," an' I held oot my hand ready ti grasp his wi' when he stretched it oot.

'"Aha!" says he, quite gratified like, "sae thoo has found a voice, has thoo?"

'It was nigh pitch darkness about us, for his davy had almost gane clean oot wi' the clogged wick, but I could feel his hands gropin' towards us, an' I says ti mysel', "Another foot, an' a murderer's copped!"

'His hands came hoverin' ower mine, for I could feel the wind o' them; in another second he touches us, an', grabbin' ahaud ov him by way o' reply, I shouts oot, "Ay, here's Annex-us, thoo b----!"

'The yell he let oot was fearfu', an', startin' back, he dragged his arm oot o' my grasp, an' then leaped forward iv a flash, ducked past us, an' awa off round the corner he fled, us efter him like the aad bitch[10] efter a started hare.

'He had dropped his lamp, an' it was darker nor Hell itself, but I could hear him dashin' along i' front ov us at wondrous speed. Mad keen I was, as I tore efter him ower bits o' balk an' stone lyin' aboot doon the rolley-way, bended double sae as ti avoid the roof-beams. Bang up against a door I comes, shakin' mysel' intiv a jelly by the shock, but when I had it opened an' was through I could still catch the sound ov his footfalls not far in front ov us. "He'll have come a big bat hissel' against the door," I thinks ti mysel' as I started off again, "ay, an' bein' before us he'll have aal the obstacles ti contend wi' first ov aal. Huzza, ho-way!" an' I tore efter him, a fair deevil for recklessness--makin' no doot he was for the main rolleyway, an' sae oot by the main drift by which we had entered the pit.

'There came the thud ov another door, an' I gans a bit mair cautious like, fendin' wi' my hands i' front ov us. Shortlies efter I notices that the footfalls sounded fainter-like; they seemed ti be comin' frae the left-hand side noo an' not i' front ov us.

'Aal ov a sudden I minds mysel' ov a return air-way that would lead oot by the main drift. "Gox!" I thinks, "thoo's hit the mark, but where the openin' is I cannot mind, for it isn't travelled biv any one barrin' the deputies. He passed the door i' front ov us, but bi the sound he's ti the left hand ov us noo;" sae I felt along the wall till I comes tiv an open way. "Ho-way," says I, mad ti think he might escape us efter aal, "ho-way, thoo'll get him yet!"

'On, on I went at a reckless speed, ti make up for my bad turn, an' iv another minute I gied tongue like a foxhound, for I heard him pat, pattin' on i' front ov us. "I's copped thoo!" I yelled through the darkness tiv him, ti tarr'fy him, for I heard him stumblin' amangst some loose props or gear o' some sort quite plainly, "I's copped the murderer!"

'Foot upon foot I gains on him; I hears him pantin' just a yard or two i' front ov us. I grasps oot wi' my hands an' touches his shoulder, an' he yells wi' terror, givin' a leap like a hare, an' slips frae under my hands.

'Doon, full length, doon I fell wiv a smash like a fall o' stone, half stunned, my head like a night o' stars.

'Suddenly there comes a yell o' horror--then a thud, a clump, clump, an' a c-clush, an' then stark silence, an' doon, right doon at the bottom ov a staple fifteen fathoms deep ten yards i' front ov us lay aal that was left o' the murderer copped, clean copped, by "the Heckler."'

FOOTNOTES:

[4] 'Mistetched' = spoiled; of ill habits. _Cf._ Chaucer's 'tetch,' a spot.

[5] 'Cavil' = the quarterly ballot amongst coal-hewers for their places down the pit. Seams differ greatly in quality and depth of coal, and in ease of working. This is the miners' own rough-and-ready method of adjusting the inequalities.

[6] The chairman of a local District Council is _ex-officio_ a magistrate.

[7] 'Shootin'' (shouting). 'Shuttin',' on the other hand, would mean shooting, whereby quaint confusions have occasionally arisen.

[8] Come along.

[9] The Assizes.

[10] Viz., Bonnie Bella, a famous greyhound of 'the Heckler's.'

'IN MEMORIOV'M'

'Ay, that's what 'tis,' replied 'the Heckler' to my query, 'it's an "in memoriov'm"--Latin, ye ken, meanin' in memory ov him. The words is alike, mevvies, but it's Latin language, I's warn'd, an' I howked it oot upon that headstone myself wiv a clasp-knife.'

I knelt down upon the sandy dune and brushed aside the bents that nearly covered the squat gray stone with their long lashes, and eventually deciphered a straggling array of figures which for their illegibility would have enraptured an antiquary.

'It was just below us,' continued 'the Heckler,' 'that I found his cap, an' thinkin' him drooned, an' him bein' a favour-yte wi' me, I just put up that bit stone for him an' carved his initials on it, an' the Latin, an' G. C., that's for us, "the Heckler," ye ken, his mark. But it was a false alarm efter aal, an' noo that Jim Hedley's a Right Hon. Lord Mayor oot iv Australie, I's warn'd but when he's put under the sod he'll hev a hearse an' four horses an' a proper musulyum' (mausoleum) 'tiv hisself.'

'What made you think he was drowned?' I inquired. 'Did you think it a case of suicide?'

'Ay, o' course I did; we aal did that, an' not wivvoot reasons,' responded 'the Heckler,' 'for he was full o' misery at that time, an' wanted ti get shot o' the whole lot ov it. Jim was a fine, tall, proper lad--"bonny Jim" the lasses called him--wunnerfu' handy, too, iv aal sorts of ways, an' as for behaviour, wey, he could talk ti my lord as canny as tiv a pot-boy.

'Well, wiv aal these gifts o' fortune it wasn't surprisin' he got hisself sweetheartin' wiv a young, bonny, quiet-faced lassie, daughter ov aad Sheepshanks, the farmer, close in by the village.

'It was a bit lift for Jim, for she had some brass, but aad Sheepshanks, he tries to forbid the "callins"' (banns) 'i' church; "for what's a pitman," says he, "that a farmer's daughter should marry on?--a dirty-faced, drunken, dog-lovin', gamblin' chep," says he; an' a lot o' gob o' that kind, ye ken, bein' a red-hot Tory wiv a lot o' Noah's-ark kind ov ideas iv his head.

'The lassie didn't think that, though; she just warshipped Jim, followin' him aboot wiv her eyes everywhere, just like the aad bitch' (here he nodded towards the greyhound beside him) 'does "the Heckler."

'Well, they marries an' has a bit fam'ly, an' Jim gans ahead quick; he was marrow' (mate) 'wi' me as a hewer yence, an' then he becomes a deputy, an' bein' a great reader an' a gran' speaker, there was some talk o' makin' him wor Member o' Parlyment when he got a bit older. Well, it had aal been plain sailin' for Jim so far, an' everybody thought his success was sartin, but he soon came tarr'ble nigh makin' a tragedy ov hisself, poor chap.

'There was a young widow woman came ti live doon here at the Prospect House ower there. She'd been married on a fat old chap that had made a lot o' brass i' the toon i' publics, an' they used to come here for a bit i' the summer, an' when he died she comes doon ti the "Prospect" ti bide for good an' aal.