When, some miles on our road, we came to a long stretch of moorland, I told Andy to stop till we got off. This being done, I told him to go on and wait for us at the next house, as we wished to have a walk.
“The nixt house?” queried Andy, “the very nixt house? Must it be that same?”
“No, Andy!” I answered, “the next after that will do equally well, or the third if it is not too far off. Why do you want to change?”
“Well, yer ’an’r, to tell ye the thruth there’s a girrul at the house beyant what thinks it’s a long time on the road I am widout doin’ anythin’ about settlin’ down, an’ that its time I asked her fortin, anyhow. Musha! but it’s afeerd I am to shtop there, fur maybe she’d take advantage iv me whin she got me all alone, an’ me havin’ to wait there till yez come. An’ me so softhearted, that maybe I’d say too much or too little.”
“Why too much or too little?”
“Faix! if I said too much I might be settled down before the month was out; an’ if I said too little I might have a girrul lukin’ black at me iv’ry time I dhruv by. The house beyant it is a public, an’ shure I know I’m safe there anyhow—if me dhrouth’ll only hould out!”
I took the hint, and Andy spun my shilling in the air as he drove off. Dick and I walked together, and when he was out of earshot I said:—
“Now, old fellow, we are alone! What is it?”
“It’s about Murdock.”
“Not more than you told me in your letter, I hope. I owe you a good turn for that thrashing you gave him!”