"Powder," he answered, "an' lead, tha domned foo'!"
Mr. Briarley looked at his mug regretfully.
"I thowt," he said, "as happen it mought ha' bin beer."
Having reflected a moment, he was on the point of raising the mug to his lips when a thought struck him. He stopped short.
"What's he goin' to do wi' em?" he quavered.
"Ax him," was the grim answer. "Ax him, lad. He dunnot say."
"He is na—" in manifest trepidation, "he is na—goin' to—to fire 'em off!"
"He'll fire 'em off, if he comes across thee," was the reply. "Mak' sure o' that. An' I should na blame him, neyther."
Mr. Briarley reflected again for a few seconds—reflected deeply. Then he moved aside a little.
"I hannot seen Sararann sin' yesterday," he said, softly, "nor yet Janey, nor yet—th' owd missus. I—I mun go and see 'em."