‘Blades!’ called the man in the rabbit-skin waistcoat—‘Ikey Blades of Quanymoor!’
Everybody turned to stare at Paul.
‘That’s him,’ said one. ‘Course it is,’ said another.
‘Bin yo Ikey Blades from Quarrymoor?’ asked the man with the list.
‘No,’ said Paul
The man cursed, devoting himself and Paul to unnameable penalties. He wound up by asking Paul what he was doing. He wrapped this simple inquiry in a robe of blasphemies. ‘Nothing particular,’ Paul answered. ‘What’s the matter?’ ‘Tak’ it easy with him,’ said a burly, hoarse-voiced man. ‘Beest thee i’ the Major’s pay?’ ‘Major?’ asked Paul. ‘What Major?’ ‘Why—Major Fellowes!’
‘No,’ said Paul, laughing. ‘I’ve got no more to do with the police than thee hast. What is it, lads? A bit of a match, eh? Goo along. Need’st ha’ no fear o’ me.’
He had been fighting his way out of the local dialect for half a dozen years, but it was expedient not to forget it here.
‘I dunno about that,’ said the man with the waistcoat. ‘Who bist?’
‘Armstrong’s my naäm,’ said Paul. ‘I’ve lived i’ the Barfield Road all my life.’