"Shameless! A mon—ony mon—that's a' tha thinks on. Bide till tha's wanted. What's this?"
Voices—voices—ever so many fierce faces peering down all round.
"Peter's Pot? An' what were 'ee a-wanting on t'moor this time night? No good. Nobbody but a fool or a thief 'ud coom oop ere i' t'fog."
One of the men, a farm laborer with wry shoulders and a thin, malicious face, suddenly burst into tuneless song:
"I been a-courtin' Mary Jane
On Ilkla' Moor bar t'at."
"Howd toong!" yelled Grimethorpe, in a fury. "Doost want Ah should break ivery bwoan i' thi body?" He turned on Bunter. "Tak thesen off, Ah tell tha. Tha'rt here for no good."
"But, William—" began his wife. He snapped round at her like a dog, and she shrank back.
"Naay now, naay now," said a man, whom Wimsey dimly recognized as the fellow who had befriended him on his previous visit, "tha mun' taak them in for t' night, racken, or there'll be trouble wi' t' folk down yonder at t' Lodge, lat aloan what police 'ull saay. Ef t' fellow 'm coom to do harm, 'ee's doon it already—to 'unself. Woan't do no more tonight—look at 'un. Bring 'un to fire, mon," he added to Bunter, and then, turning to the farmer again, "'Tes tha'll be in Queer Street ef 'e wor to goo an' die on us wi' noomony or rhoomaticks."
This reasoning seemed partly to convince Grimethorpe. He made way, grumbling, and the two chilled and exhausted men were brought near the fire. Somebody brought two large, steaming tumblers of spirits. Wimsey's brain seemed to clear, then swim again drowsily, drunkenly.