“Aye, but I am.”
“Well, everyone to his fancy, as th’ woman said when ’oo kissed th’ now. By gow, lad, thou’lt have a handful wi’ yon spitfire. ’Oo’d knife thee as soon as look at thee, if tha crossed her. More bi token tha’ll have all th’ Burnplatter’s to reckon wi if owt went wrong. They all hang together, aw’ll say that for ’em. An’ what does th’ lass say to ’t?”
“Winnot look th’ side o’ th’ road aw’m on. Treats me as if aw were th’ dirt under her feet. Starts off like a filly if ’oo sees mi shadow.”
“Happen that’s nobbut to ’tice thee on. By gow a Burnplatter ’ll think twice afore ’oo turns up her nose at Tom o’ Bill’s, tho’ to be sure tha’rt a bit on th’ downgrade as years go. It’s softer liggin at th’ Moorcock than ivver ’oo’s known at Burnplatts an’ for jumping ovver a broomstick, why, there’s more of ’em does it nor ivver stands afore th’ parson. All th’ same, aw doubt tha’rt brewin’ trouble for thissen, an all for a wench tha’llt tire of i’ no time an’ maybe won’t find easy to shut as an owd shoe. Them tally women sticks like a burr to a gradely felly wi’ a good whom to his back. Tha met ha’ bidden my time out; but if tha’rt set on makkin’ a rod for thi own back, what’s to hinder thee?”
“Aw’n yerd ’oo’s trothed to Ephraim o’ Burnplatts,” came the reply, “an’ if it’s true there’ll be a tussle for ’t; he’s an ugly customer to tackle is Ephraim. If he were aat o’ th’ gait aw sud stand a better chance. Aw wish aw cud land him safe i’ Botany Bay, an’ be damned to him.”
“Well, that sud be easy enew, if we set yar wits to wark. Let me think. Eh! Tom, lad, thi owd feyther’s to ha’ brains for both on us yet.”
There was a prolonged silence betwixt the twain, a silence you may be sure I did not break. Indeed, I was in a cold sweat of apprehension, for I knew if I were caught eavesdropping I should have short shrift, and would have to thank my stars if I got off with nothing worse than sore bones.
Then the old man spoke: “Isn’t it th’ October Fair i’ Huthersfilt next week?”
“Aye, tha knows that wi’out me tellin’ thee.” He was a surly brute, to be sure, was Tom o’ Bill’s, but then his was scarce a reverend sire.
“What o’ t?”