“Enoch Hoyle will account for that,” I replied, and stepped down.
I suppose there never was a prouder man than was old Enoch that day.
“You reside at Merrydale, Mr. Hoyle?”
“‘Mister Hoyle,’ he ca’d me, th’ first an’ last time i’ mi life aw’m be ca’d owt but Enoch. Eh! but he knows a gentleman when he sees one, does ’Torney Blackburn,” was Enoch’s comment when he told the story of that day’s doings, which he did at least once a day for the rest of his life, too often, population being but sparse in our neighbourhood, to ears grown weary of the tale.
“Aye, to be sewer, at Merrydale. Aw were born theer just seventy-two year sin’ come next Xermas. Mi feyther were Sammy Hoyle, owd Sammy Hoyle—yo’ll ha’ heard tell of him, aw mak’ no doubt—an’ mi mother were one of th’ Garsides o’ Rocher. I’m th’ only chick they ever had, an’ aw’v heerd mi mother say aw were varry delikit—”
“Oh, stop him, for heaven’s sake,” ejaculated Mr. Alison, “or we shall have the old fool’s autobiography from birth to now.”
“Yes, yes Mr. Hoyle, quite so. And what occupation do you follow?”
“Eh?”
“What are you?”
“Aw’m th’ senior deacon at Pow Moor Chapel.”