“Why nobbut this. Eph. o’ Burnplatts is sewer to be theer doin’ a bit o trade i’ th’ galloways them Irish drovers bring ovver th’ watter, an’ he’ll, ten to one, be makkin’ his way whom to Burnplatts ovver Crosland Moor latish on i’ th’ neet, an’ takkin’ both sides o’ th’ road at that, a bit an’ aboon market fresh. He’ll ha’ to pass through Squire Radcliffe’s plantation, aboon th’ Brigg tha knows, an’ monny a bonnie hare’s been knocked o’ th’ yead i’ that copse.”
“Well, get on, aw’m hearkenin’. What are ta gettin’ at?”
“Weel, if yo’ an’ me happened, just bi chance like, to bi watchin’ i’ th’ Plantation just as he went through, an’ caught him red-handed wi’ a brace o’ hares faand i’ his pocket when we’d knocked him dateless after a desperate struggle.”
“An’ how the guisehang could he ha’ a brace o’ hares i’ his pocket comin’ thro’ Huthersfilt Fair?”
“Oh! Tom, Tom, tha’llt nivver be the man thi feyther’s bin. Why, if so be he hasn’t a brace on him, that’s no reason we suddn’t find ’em i’ his pockets if we tuk care to put ’em theer oursen when we’ve quieted him. We sud produce ’em i’ court, an’ seein’s believin’. ‘Sensation i’ Coort!’ that’s what th’ pappers ’ll say. It’ll be a ‘Sizes job or a Sessions job for Ephraim then, an’ if aw know owt o’ th’ laws o’ our great an’ free country, it’ll be monny a long year an’ after before either thee or yon gipsy wench ’ll set een on him agen.”
“It saands all reet, it saands all reet. Aw’ll sleep on it, feyther. Come, let’s be goin’. Aw’m dry, an’ th’ dinner ’ll be spoilin’. Let’s to whom an’ think on it.” And the worthy pair, gun under arm, picked their way across the heather towards Bill’s o’ Jack’s. It may be guessed that I was in no ways inclined to follow them. Mary’s barm went clean out of my mind, but if I’d had to go without home-brewed “for the rest of my natural,” as folk say, I wouldn’t have shown my face within the doors of “the Moorcock” that day.
Instead I faced right about, and made my way to run as fast as I could in the opposite direction. My first thought was to hunt up Ephraim and put him on his guard. My second and better to talk the matter over with my father. Here was a plot to cast an innocent man into prison; one of the law-less tribe, to be sure, for whom a good many people thought prison wasn’t bad enough, but a tribe my father regarded as to some extent part of the flock confided to his keeping, and I thought he ought to be taken into counsel. I’ll confess that just for one moment the thought flashed across my mind that if Eph. were, by whatever diabolic device, put out of Tom o’ Bill’s way he would by the same stroke be put out of mine, and the gamekeeper would have the sorry work of pulling the chestnuts out of the fire for the parson’s son. But I scouted this devil’s whisper without ado. However bad Ephraim might be, and were he ten times as dangerous a rival for Miriam’s hand and heart he should not fall into this snare, and Bill o’ Jack’s and Tom o’ Bill’s should be hoist with their own petard, if human wit could compass it.
I found my father deep immersed in the preparation of his next Sabbath’s discourse, and of this his mind was so full that I had, with what patience I could assume, perforce to lend him my ears, though I fear not much of my mind, whilst he recapitulated the heads of his sermon. This weighty matter at length dismissed the good man lighted his pipe, bade Ruth bring in a measure of home-brewed and settled himself in his chair to learn what had brought me over to Pole Moor of a weekday (wart day we called it), when I ought by right to have been tending my loom at Wrigley Mill. Ruth had perched herself saucily on the arm of the old oak chair in which he sat and idly straightened his thin grey locks whilst he listened to my tale.
“There’s only one thing to be done,” said my sire, when I had told my story. “Our course is clear. I must at once to Burnplatts and see that misguided youth, Ephraim, and impress it upon him that he must pretermit the October Fair, or if that be not practicable, must return home by some other route, be it never so ungain; indeed, the ungainer the better. Likewise I can improve the occasion by enjoining him to abandon courses that expose him to the guile and snares of the officers of the law. Perchance the seed may fall upon prepared ground. Though truth to say I do not at the moment recall any text of the Scriptures that seems to be directed at the poachers of wild game. Though to be sure the Psalmist’s prayer, ‘Pull me out of the net that they have laid privily for me: for thou art my strength,’ seems apt. Yes, assuredly, it fits the occasion like the heft to the blade. Let me see, I could divide my discourse as follows….” And the excellent pastor was already busy in his thoughts projecting the word in season.
“But, father,” quote Ruth, “what about the Bradburys?”