“Now look here, Abe,” he said, “if ever tha’rt to prove thissen a man now’s th’ time. Walkin’ thi legs off ’ll do no gooid other to thee or to Miriam. Tha’d prob’ly walk till tha dropped senseless, an’ then there’d be two to look for i’stead o’ one. We can do nowt till there’s more leet, and then we’st want more no thee an’ me to scour th’ moors, au’ we’st want more wit nor man-wit, we’st want dog-wit.. Aw’ll up to th’ Pole an’ get your Tear’em. He’s more sense nor mony a Christian, an’ he’s getten four legs to your two, an’, what no Christian ever had ’at aw’n heerd tell on, a scent for a trail. An’ aw’ll down to th’ Burnplatts. They keep a mon o’ dogs theer bi what tha says, an’ they won’t keep dogs fit for nowt but to look at or to lake wi’.”
“Th’ Burnplatts!” I cried. “Why, what fooils we are. She may be there at this very minute. She may have taken a fancy to see some of her old friends, and taken Burnplatts on her way, and been overtaken by the dark and compelled to tarry there. She set a deal of store on that Daft Billy I do know.”
“To be sewer, to be sewer,” agreed Jim tactfully, glad to encourage any fancy that dispelled despair. “Wheer else sud oo be? Or happens oo’s ca’ed at owd Enoch Hoyle’s at th’ Merry Vale, an’ yo’ no more sense not to ha’ her lest on th’ moors; a lass ’at knows every inch o’ th’ ground bi’ th’ feel o’ th’ fooit.”
“I’ll off to Burnplatts this very minute,” I cried, starting up.
“Tha’lt do nowt o’ th’ sort,” said Jim, composedly. “Aw’n getten th’ key, an’ th’ key aw’st keep. Onny goin’ to Burnplatts aw’st do, an’ that won’t be till aw’n etten an’ slept. We’st want all th’ strength we can muster for this day’s work, belike, an’ if tha’s no stomach for food nah tha mum eit against th’ time tha has. Mother, thee ma’ jorum o’ tea, an’ put summat to it stronger nor watter if tha’s owt i’ th’ haase, an’ aw’ll lig me dahn o’ th’ settle till th’ buzzer goes, an’ then aw’m off. An’ aw’st ta’ th’ key wi’ me. So Abe, thee ger to bed, an’ stay theer till aw come back. Aw’ll bring other Miriam or news on her or that Daft Billy, or mi name’s not Jim Haigh.”
I suppose I must have fallen into the sleep of utter exhaustion. When I woke it was broad daylight. I heard voices in the room below. I sprang off the pallet on which I had thrown myself, fully dressed. In the kitchen below I found Mary and Jim and Daft Billy, the latter eating ravenously from a plate piled with smoking collops, and washing his viands down with deep draughts of Mary’s homebrewed, Jim encouraging him with hearty exhortations to eat and drink his fill.
“And don’t thee come atween a man an’ his vittles, Abe,” Jim commanded, when he saw me about to ply Billy with eager questions. “Aw dunnot gradely know what they kirsened yar friend here ‘Daft Billy’ for, but if he’s daft aw’d like to know wheer they find th’ wise men. Tak’ another collop, Billy, an’ ha’ some cheese an’ pickled cabbage wi’ it. It gi’es a relish to th’ bacon, though aw mun say tha’s getten a varry respectable twist o’ thi own wi’out mich bucking. Help thissen to th’ haver bread an’ th’ ale. It’s thinnish drinkin’, to be sewer, but what’s wantin’ i’ th’ quality yo’ can happen ma’ up i’ th’ quantity.”
I thought Billy would never have done. And he ate as leisurely and as solemnly as if he’d been at a funeral, and never a word spoke he till, after eating enough for three ordinary men, he at last drew the back of his big hand across his mouth, and said gravely:
“Theer, aw think aw’st do nah.”
“Are ta sewer tha, couldn’t do another slice across th’ flitch,” asked Jim, not, I thought, without latent sarcasm.