“Tell him he’s wanted very pertickler.”
Matthew stopped short, and every eye was turned to the corner where Jim and I were sweltering.
“There’ll be something wrong at home,” I cried in quick alarm.
“Mak’ way, theer,” said Jim. “I’m wi thee, Abe. Yo’ll excuse us, Mr. and Mrs. Wrigley, but we’re feart there’s summat wrong at th’ Poll.”
Standing by the counting house door we found the man who had come in quest of me, assuredly no messenger from my father or Ruth, a man known to me from my earliest days, and once not a little feared, a Burnplatter known through all the countryside as, Daft Billy. He was generally supposed to have what was lightly and unfeelingly spoken of as “half a slate off,” and as such was the butt of all the boys of the valley, whose delight it was to follow him at a safe distance, shouting at him all the silly gibes they could lay their tongues to. Billy usually pursued his way unheeding, only the fierce gleam of his eyes and the malignant scowl on his face betraying that the words had reached his ears. But at rare times an ungovernable fury would seize upon him. His face then was a fearsome thing to look upon; he would bellow like a wounded bull, and rush after the scattering lads, and woe betide the urchin that fell into his hands. He was the terror of the matrons for miles around, and women expecting to become mothers dreaded meeting Daft Billy as they walked abroad. He was counted the cunningest cow doctor anywhere our abouts, and the farmers sent for him when at their own wits’ end. It was generally allowed that Billy could see further into the innards of a horse or “beast” than any vet, in Huddersfield or Oldham, and he made a pretty penny by advising the local gentry in their dealings in horseflesh. But, unlike all other vets I’ve ever come across, he was the most unsociable of human beings. I don’t remember ever to have seen him smile or laugh, and, as Jim complained, good liquor was fair thrown away on him, for the more he drank the more morose he waxed. He had no known kith and kin whose lad he was or whence he came none could tell, and he seemed to have a special aversion for the gentler sex. For all save Miriam. I know not how my dear love had won the heart of this Slaithwaite Caliban, but certain it is he worshipped the ground she trod on. She could say him in his wildest moods with a word, nay, with a look. Yet was not his love, like mine, that of a man for a maid, but rather that of a dog for its master. It was never questioned that Daft Billy would cheerfully give his life for Miriam, if need were, and as I grew to know this my old feelings for the man melted away and I came to have a curious sort of liking for him. How he regarded me I do not know to this day—with a sort of tolerance, belike, when he came to know how matters stood between Miriam and myself.
“Why, Billy, what brings you here at this time of night?” I exclaimed, fears of evil quick besetting me. “Nothing wrong at Burnplatts?”
“Tha’rt wanted—Burnplatts; owd Mother Sykes—’oo’s badly.”
“But what good can I do her? I’m no doctor.”
“Dunnot know. Women’s whimsy, belike. Miriam sent me, an’ tha’s got to go if aw hug thee theer.”
“Oh, if Miriam sent for me I’m with you, Billy. Jim’ll come, too.”