No one was there.
And then suddenly I saw that a long slip of paper was protruding through the slit of the door. I held it to the light. In rude but vigorous handwriting the message ran:—
“Put them out on the doorstep and save your skin.”
“What do they want?” I asked, as I read him the message.
“What they’ll never ’ave! No, by the Lord, never!” he cried, with a fine burst of spirit. “’Ere, Enoch! Enoch!”
The old fellow came running to the call.
“Enoch, I’ve been a good master to you all my life, and it’s your turn now. Will you take a risk for me?”
I thought better of my uncle when I saw how readily the man consented. Whomever else he had wronged, this one at least seemed to love him.
“Put your cloak on and your ‘at, Enoch, and out with you by the back door. You know the way across the moor to the Purcells’. Tell them that I must ’ave the cart first thing in the mornin’, and that Purcell must come with the shepherd as well. We must get clear of this or we are done. First thing in the mornin’, Enoch, and ten pound for the job. Keep the black cloak on and move slow, and they will never see you. We’ll keep the ’ouse till you come back.”
It was a job for a brave man to venture out into the vague and invisible dangers of the fell, but the old servant took it as the most ordinary of messages. Picking his long, black cloak and his soft hat from the hook behind the door, he was ready on the instant. We extinguished the small lamp in the back passage, softly unbarred the back door, slipped him out, and barred it up again. Looking through the small hall window, I saw his black garments merge instantly into the night.