“Alfred—Alfred! Wheer's ter gotten to?”
Then he turned again to the group.
“Get up, then, Maggie, lass, get up wi' thee. Tha ma'es too much o' th' bod.”
A young man approached, limping, wearing a thick short coat and knee-breeches. He was Danish-looking, broad at the loins.
“I's come back, then,” said the father to the son—“leastwise, he's bin browt back, flyed ower the Griff Low.”
The son looked at me. He had a devil-may-care bearing, his cap on one side, his hands stuck in the front pockets of his breeches. But he said nothing.
“Shall you come in a minute, Master?” said the elderly woman, to me.
“Ay, come in an' ha'e a cup o' tea or summat. You'll do wi' summat, carryin' that bod. Come on, Maggie wench, let's go in.”
So we went indoors, into the rather stuffy, overcrowded living-room, that was too cosy and too warm. The son followed last, standing in the doorway. The father talked to me. Maggie put out the tea-cups. The mother went into the dairy again.
“Tha'lt rouse thysen up a bit again now, Maggie,” the father-in-law said—and then to me: “'Er's not bin very bright sin' Alfred come whoam, an' the bod flyed awee. 'E come whoam a Wednesday night, Alfred did. But ay, you knowed, didna yer. Ay, 'e comed 'a Wednesday—an' I reckon there wor a bit of a to-do between 'em, worn't there, Maggie?”