He laid his hand on Jem’s arm, and with a short “Good evening,” pulled him out of the cheerful circle, into the foggy dusk. Jem, who followed him usually like a dog, now hung back, and dragged against his hold, trembling and reluctant; not drunk, he thought, but manifestly dazed with fear. He was tall and big, and perhaps it was the dead weight of his resistance that made Guy feel as if the very mist oppressed him, and forced him back. Against himself, against his poor companion, against uncomprehended forces he struggled on.
“Sithee, there a be. We canna get by. He’ll get me!” gasped Jem, as he struggled.
“Jem,” said Guy, “I have got past him, though I was just as much afraid as you. And I am not going to let him stop you. He can’t do it, Jem. Say your prayers your mother taught you, and come on. He can’t stop you.”
“Eh, but he can—but he can! He’s a coomin’; he’s a gripped me!” gasped Jem, flinging his arms round Guy, and dragging him back, then shrinking behind him.
“No, he hasn’t, Jem,” said Guy, in clear, firm tones. “I’m going first over the bridge; so if he gets either of us, he’ll have me. You come after, like a man, and God have mercy on us both!”
Guy pushed forward. Surely the poor fellow would follow now! But again Jem held him back.
“Naw, sir,” said the poor half-wit, in his cracking treble, “I’ll gang ower first, and yo’ coom arter,” and with a quick, unsteady run, he shambled on to the bridge.