“Redfearn o’ Fairbanks is late to-night,” he said at length, after a silence broken only by the click of Mrs. Schofield’s steel knitting needles.
“Aye, it’s market day in Huddersfilt, yo’ know, Mr. Black, an’ th’ roads ’ll be bad to-neet. But Fairbanks ’ll win through if th’ mare dunnot fall an’ break his neck.”
“Th’ mare’s nooan foaled ’at ’ll break Tom o’ Fairbank’s neck,” said Moll o’ Stuart’s, grimly. “It’s spun hemp that bides for him, if there’s a God i’ heaven.”
“Whisht yo’ now, Moll, an’ quit speakin’ o’ your betters, leastwise if you canna speak respectful.”
“Betters! Respectful! Quo’ she,” retorted Molly with a defiant snort, pulling hard at her filthy cuddy.
“Aye betters!” snapped the landlady, or as nearly snapped as lips like hers could snap. “It’s me as says it, an’ me as ’ll stand to it. Wheer i’ all th’ parish will yo find a freer hand or a bigger heart nor Tom o’ Fairbanks? Tell me that, yo’ besom.”
“Aye free enew,” said Molly curtly.
Mrs. Schofield bridled indignantly.
“Oh! It’s weel for yo’ to sit by mi own fireside an’ eat o’ mi bread an’ nivver so happy as when yo’re castin’ up bye-gones ’at should be dead an’ buried long sin.”
“Aye, aye, let the dead past bury its dead,” put in the schoolmaster soothingly.