“Mrs. Tinker, perhaps?” hazarded Tom.
“And aunt’s in bed, as bad as can be with a sick head-ache. A pretty Christmas we are likely to have; but is it any message you can leave?” for Tom had turned to go, “you look in trouble.”
“Jack here has brought me a message, Miss. It’s from an old friend, perhaps from the oldest, and it concerns the best friend I have in the world. My more than guardian Mr. Black, the schoolmaster at Diggle, is sick, it is feared unto death, and Jack here has won over th’ top through th’ snow to fetch me to him.”
“An’ dun yo’ meean to say, Tom Pinder,” broke in Betty, “’at this yer drowned rat of a man ’at stann’s theer gaupin’ as if he wer mooin-struck an’ drippin’ all ovver my cleean floor like a leeakin’ piggin’ ’s come all th’ way fro’ Diggle i’ this weather ’at’s nooan fit for a dog to be aat in.”
“Aye, Betty,” said Tom,—he was a prime favourite with Betty of old, and he knew it,—“not so warm as your kitchen, but it was urgent you see, and Jack’s an old friend too, aren’t you, Jack?”
But Jack’s eye and Jack’s thoughts were fixed upon something more to a hungry man’s purpose than mere matters of friendship—he had caught the whiff from the oven door—it was the scent of pork pie piping hot.
Dorothy caught the glance that waywards.
“Why how thoughtless I am. Now, Jack, I’m sure, as it’s Christmas time”—needless qualification—“you can eat some Christmas fare. And they’re the very first pies I’ve ever made, and I do hope they’ll be nice. Peggy, why don’t you set some plates?”
“And mind yo’ hot ’em afore th’ fire. Its simply beyond all belief how aw’ve to tell that girl to put hot plates wi’ hot meeat, an’ cowd wi’ cowd, i’steead o’ cowd wi’ hot an’ hot wi’ cowd.”
“And you Tom,”—and then with a hesitation as though in doubt, “I mean, Mr. Pinder, you will take something before you cross those terrible hills?”