“Aw’m noan so sure they’n getten th’ rooit o’ th’ matter,” quoth Jim, wagging his head gravely, as he scraped the sides of the bowl with his spoon. “Aw’m noan fully decided i’ my own mind. It tak’s a deal o’ thinkin’ ovver, an’ aw think it ’ud nobbut be fair to tak’ St. Chad’s and Pole Moor turn an’ turn abaat till I’m fair settled one road or t’other—th’ church i’ t’ mornin’ an’ t’ chapel at neet. What says ta, Abe?”
“Why, you never get up in time for morning service,” I said.
“Weel, when aw missed th’ Church, aw could mak’ up for it bi stoppin’ to th’ prayer meetin’ at neet,”
“It’s a far cry to Pole Moor,” I objected.
“Not it, marry. Your Ruth says there’s folk go to Pole Your fro Meltham an’ owd ’uns at that.”
“Oh! If Ruth wants you to go…”
“Nay, nay, not ’oo. ’Oo only mentioned it casual like,”
I shrugged my shoulders. I had my own notions, I daresay Jim had in later years.
“But, onny road,” concluded Jim, “aw’st noan join Matthy’s lot. He come to me ’t other day when aw were tunin’ a loom an’ swearin’ a bit to missen, which some o’ them looms ’ud mak’ a parson swear, an’ he towd me to my face he never missed a neet but he took me to the Lord i’ prayer. Aw towd him I knew there was a mule i’ th’ garden somegate, an’ if he didn’t stop it aw’d poise his soul out.” And Jim pulled off his boots with a mighty grunt of relief—he swore by clogs as the only footgear for human wear—and lumbered heavily to bed.
CHAPTER V.