"Aye," said Mr. Briarley, who had reached his second quart, "let it cerkylate, an' he'll ha' more comfort, will th' workin' mon. Theer's too many on 'em," with natural emotion. "They're th' ruin o' th' country. Theer's summat wrong wi' 'em. If they'd gi' a chap summat to put i' 'em theer'd be some chance for him; but that's allus th' way. He has na no chance, hasn't th' workin' mon—he has na no——"
"Shut up!" said Foxy Gibbs.
"Eh?" inquired the orator, weakly and uncertainly.
"Shut up, till tha's getten less beer i' thee!"
"Shut—" repeated Mr. Briarley, winking his eyes slowly,—"up?"
He seized his beer mug and gazed into its depths in some confusion. A deep sigh escaped him.
"That's allus th' road," he faltered. "It's th' road wi' Sararann, an' it's th' road wi' aw on 'em. He has no chance, has na a mon as is misforchnit." And he happily disposed of the beer before Janey opened the door and appeared to marshal him homeward.
But the Broxton Bank was an established fact, and created no small sensation.
"He is a bold fellow, this Haworth," it was said among his rivals, "but he will overstep himself one of these days."
"He's set up a bank, has he?" shouted Granny Dixon, on Murdoch's first visit after she had heard the story.