“The press gang?”
“Ay; that come pokin’ round after able-bodied men for the Navy, and kidnappin’ ’em away to sea, and keepin’ them there, whether or no, for years, and their families at home starvin’.”
“I say, what times!”
“Ay, so they was. I’ve seen two men ’angin’ in chains on Camley Moor when I was about ten—it were for sheep-stealin’, and put the fear o’ death on me. Surely I can ’ear them chains a-clankin’ now!”
Wynyard felt as if he had been suddenly precipitated into another world. Here he was, sitting talking to a live man, who discoursed familiarly of hanging in chains, and the press gang!
“Would you take something, sir?” he asked. “I’d like to drink your health.”
“Ay, ay, I don’t mind ’avin’ a glass wi’ ye. Ginders! Ginders!” raising his voice, “give us a taste of yer old beer, the best—two half-pints;” and, as they were brought, he looked at Wynyard, and said, “To ye, young sir, and good luck to ye in Ottinge; may ye live as long as I do!”
“Thank you; have you any prescription for your wonderful health?”
“Ay, I have so. Look ’ere, I’ve not tasted medicine for fifty year. I don’t hold wi’ doctors. I only eat twice a day—my breakfast at eight, and my dinner at two. My daughter she do mike me a cup o’ tea at six, but I don’t want it, and it’s only to oblige her. Work—work’s the thing when yer young. I mind bein’ in the train one day, and a great heavy man complainin’ o’ his pore ’ealth, and ’is inside, and another says, ‘I can tell ye o’ a cure, master, and a sure one.’ ‘What’s that?’ ses ’e, all alive. ‘Rise of a mornin’ at four o’clock, and mow an acre before ye break yer fast, and go on mowing all day—that will cure ye—ye’ll be a new man.’ ‘I’d be a dead un,’ ses ’e. My advice is: no medicine, short commons, lots of work, and there ye are, and ye’ll live to maybe a hundred.”
“But what about cuts and wounds? How do you doctor them?”