“Tell, if tha’rt set, tha’rt set, an’ theer’s an end on ’t; but aw dunnot see th’ use o’ wakin’ me up i’ th’ middle o’ th’ neet to ax my advice if tha’d made up thi mind to go thi own way i’ th’ finish.” Jim had yet to learn that the only advice people welcome is that which confirms their own opinions.
“Weel, how are ta bahn to set agate?” asked Jim, after a pause. “Tha cannot varry weel go to Manchester axin’ ivvery blessed man tha comes across if he’s owt akin to Miriam’s feyther.”
“Did you ever hear of a lawyer called Roberts, I think, a Manchester man?”
“Owd ‘Yaller Breeches’? Aw sud think aw did.”
“Yaller Breeches?” I queried.
“Aye, they seyn a what do yo’ ca’ ‘em, a cust’mer o’ his—no, that’s noan th’ word.”
“A client,” I suggested.
“Aye, that’s it. A client o’ his ’at he’d gate out o’ a pertickler tight fix gay’ him a whole piece o’ yaller cloath, an’ he’s wearin’ it aat i’ breeches. Ne’er wears onny other sort, Sunday or warkday. They seyn hauf th’ rogues i’ Lancasheer ’at’s walkin’ th’ streets to-day ’ud ha’ bin i’ Towzer (jail) but for him.”
“That’s a doubtful sort of compliment,” I observed.
“Doubtful fiddlesticks,” quoth Jim. “If yo’ want to clean a chimbley yo’ don’t get a lace hankercher to it, dun yo’? It’s th’ same wi’ law, aw tak’ it. Yaller Breeches is th’ man for yo’r brass, aw tell yo’, an’ seem’ as to-morn’s a short day, aw’m agreeable to start wi’ yo’ to walk to Manchester afore th’ sun’s up, an’ we’st be theer bi th’ time he’s dahn to his office.”