Go on, for Heaven's sake. Does Uncle Silas know he is
here?'
'Well, Miss, they were with him, Brice told me, from eleven o'clock to nigh
one o' Tuesday night, an' went in and come out like thieves, 'feard ye'd
see 'em.'
'And how does Brice know anything bad?' I asked, with a strange freezing
sensation creeping from my heels to my head and down again--I am sure
deadly pale, but speaking very collectedly.
'Brice said, Miss, he saw Dudley a-cryin' and lookin' awful black, and says
he to fayther, "'Tisn't in my line nohow, an' I can't;" and says fayther
to he, "No one likes they soart o' things, but how can ye help it? The old
boy's behind ye wi' his pitchfork, and ye canna stop." An' wi' that he
bethought him o' Brice, and says he, "What be ye a-doin' there? Get ye down
wi' the nags to blacksmith, do ye." An' oop gits Dudley, pullin' his hat
ower his brows, an' says he, "I wish I was in the _Seamew_. I'm good for
nout wi' this thing a-hangin' ower me." An' that's all as Brice heard. An'
he's afeard o' fayther and Dudley awful. Dudley could lick him to pot if
he crossed him, and he and fayther 'ud think nout o' havin' him afore the
justices for poachin', and swearin' him into gaol.
Pages:
639
640
641
642
643
644
645
646
647
648
649
650
651
652
653
654
655
656
657
658
659
660
661
662
663