“Yes, yes, but I want to ask you—I think you keep Belgium hares in addition to your weaving?”
“Aye, that’s what aw’n come here to speik about, only tha’rt so long i’ gettin’ to th’ root o’ the matter, like some o’ th’ long-winded parsons it pleases the Lord to afflict us wi’ at th’ Powl, when Mr. Holmes exchanges pulpits wi’ a brother minister, a practice aw cannot say aw entirely howd wi’, though some fowk reckon a change o’ spiritual diet be gooid for th’ soul. But aw say if watter-porridge sits weel o’ yo’r stomach, stick to watter-porridge an’ no fal-lals. An’ it’s same wi’ religion an’ preachers.”
“But what about those hares, Mr. Hoyle?”
“Well, aw were tellin’ yo’, weren’t aw, but yo” won’t let me get a word in edgeways, which aw rekkon talkin’ ’s yo’ trade, other bi th’ piece or th’ hour. Yo’ see it were this way. When my poor owd missus deed—it were th’ brownchitis took her i’ th’ finish—‛Affliction’s sore long time she bore, physicians were i’ vain,’ as yo’ may see for yo’r sen on her gravestone—”
“Oh, dear; oh, dear,” ejaculated Mr. Alison; “shall we never get to the hares?”
“Better let him have his head, Mr. Blackburn,” suggested the Chairman, “else we shall be here till midnight.”
“Yo’ see, it were i’ this way,” continued the imperturbable Enoch, “as aw wer’ sayin’, when th’ owd gentleman put his oar in. Aw knew thi feyther, sir,” turning to the Bench, and beaming benevolently on the Chairman “an’ a proper man he were, an’ aw hopes yo’ tak’ after him. Aw mind me, when he wer’ at th bull-baitin’ at Bullroyd, up Long’ud way—yo’ll know th’ spot—but he took to cock-feightin’ ’i his owd age—”
“I daresay, Mr. Hoyle,” interrupted the Chairman not apparently, displeased by these family reminiscences “but you shall tell me about that another time. About those hares, now.”
“Well, aw were sayin’, when my missus deed—brownchitis aw think aw tell’d yo’ it were—aw felt mortal lonesome like, all bi missen. Clack o’ th’ loom’s all varry well, an’ a sweet music for onnybody’s ears, but when yo’n bin used to it for nigh on fifty year yo miss th’ clack of a woman’s tongue. So aw thowt aw mun ha’ company o’ some soort. Aw did think o’ gettin’ wed agen, an’ there were a widder woman up bi Nont Sarah’s ’at aw rother fancied. So aw kept mi e’en on her. Oo axed me to tea one Sunday after th’ service, an’ we’d some cheese to ’t. Aw noticed oo cut th’ rind off her cheese. Nah! a slut of a woman ’ll eit th’ cheese an’ rind an’ all, a wasteful one’ll cut th’ rind’ off, but a careful one’ll pare it. So aw concluded oo were none for Enoch Hoyle.”
“So you took up with hares?” put in Mr. Blackburn, spying his chance.