“Friends be dalled,” quoth Jim. “Us ’ll be one flesh an’ one blood, an’ afore so long either, or I’ll know the reason why. But aw dunnot know ha’ it is, aw can talk reet—aw mean reight—aw mean right—enough when aw ta’ my time to it, but as sooin as aw warm to th’ collar, so to speik—theer aw go again, aw mean speak—out th’ owd Yorkshire comes as brode—aw mean broad—as they mak’ it.”
Now I couldn’t help thinking even as I lay there, with more than enough to perplex me and that of moment, that Ruth was a little hard upon poor Jim; for certain sure am I that she herself aye, and even, my learned and reverend father himself often, in moment of excitement or stress lapsed into the common speech; and the little wonder, too, when the common speech saluted our ears from all sides from Monday morning to Sunday night. As for me, why, I never knew when I was “talking broad,” as they say, or “talking fine,” for the dialect came to me as natural as mother’s milk to a sucking babe, as my first spoken words were to show. For at this very juncture I opened wide my eyes, and turning my head as well as I could to the settle, I said:
“Aw could eit some browies, Ruth, an’ drink a pint o’ drink.”
“The Lord preserve us,” almost screamed Ruth, as she jumped away from Jim, “if the lad isn’t wakken an’ got his know again.”
They both came to my bedside and gazed at me as though I were a natural curiosity, or something in a peep-show. Then Jim:
“Weel, lad, I’m mighty fain to hear thee speik a word o’ sense agen. Tha’s had a slate off, not to say th’ whole thack, this mony a weary day an’ neet. Aw’n ta’en my turn to sit up wi’ thee, an’ of all th’ gibberish I ivver yeard tha ta’es th’ button. But tha’s started weel, nah tha has come to thi senses— ‘browies an’ a pint o’ drink.’ If Ruth here ’ll see to th’ browies, aw’ll fot th’ drink.”
“You seem to know your way about at Pole Moor,” I remarked meaningly.
Jim looked confused. “Weel, nowt to speik on,” he said, “but aw do know mi way to th’ buttry. Yo’ see, sittin’ up th’ neet through wi’ nob’dy to talk to but Tear ’em, an’ nowt to read but Fox’s ‘Book o’ Martyrs’ an’ ‘Th’ Call to th’ Unconverted’—not ’at aw’n a word to say agen them books, mind yo’, an’ don’t you go tellin’ yo’r feyther ’at aw an—well, it’s dry work, to put it mild, an’ if aw hadn’t had a drop o’ summat to weet mi clay aw should ha’ nodded off belike just when it were time to gi’ thee thi doctor’s stuff. Summat to ‘allay th’ fever,’ owd Dean ca’d it, which my mother says if they’d let thee sup thi fill o’ cherry-laurel watter tha’d ha bin up an’ about afore this—tha knows what a woman she is for herbs. Oo’s med me read owd Culpepper awmost fro’ back to back sin’ tha’s bin ligged here, an’ as far as aw can mak’ aat from what th’ owd herbalist says in his book, an’ fro’ mi mother’s comments on what aw’n read to her, tha’s getten abaat sixty different complaints all to thi own cheek. Tha’s getten th’ symptoms o’ all on ’em, an’ partickler o’ those wi’ th’ jaw-breakin’ names, at aw couldn’t reelly put me tongue to. Why, Ruth hersen couldn’t chrisen haulf on ’em; could ta, Ruth?” And here Jim paused to take wind for a fresh start.
“Where’s my father?” I asked.
“Why, where should he be at nine o’clock of a Sabbath morn?” asked Ruth, proceeding, woman-wise, to answer her own question. “He’s in th’ barn, to be sure, with th’ Sunday School. I don’t know what the world’s coming to, I’m sure. One would have thought my father had enough to do, with two sermons every Sunday, one on week-days, sick visiting, prayer meetings, conferences, a cow, two pigs, a potato patch, a sick son——”