"There's th' chap," he said, "by th' Lord Harry!"
In a few seconds more he pulled up alongside of him.
"Stop a bit, lad," he said.
Mr. Briarley hesitated and then obeyed with some suddenness. A delicately suggestive recollection of "th' barrels" induced him to do so. He ducked his head with a feeble smile, whose effect was somewhat obscured by a temporary cloud of natural embarrassment. He had not been brought into immediate contact with Haworth since the strikes began.
"Th' same," he faltered, with illusive cheerfulness,—"th' same to yo' an'—an' mony on 'em."
Then he paused and stood holding his hat in his hand, endeavoring painfully to preserve the smile in all its pristine beauty of expression.
Haworth leaned forward in his gig.
"You're a nice chap," he said. "You're a nice chap."
A general vague condition of mind betrayed Mr. Briarley into the momentary weakness of receiving this compliment literally. He brightened perceptibly, and his countenance became suffused with the roseate blush of manly modesty.
"My best days is ower," he replied. "I've been misforchnit, Mester—but theer wur a toime as th' opposite sect ha' said th' same—though that theer's a thing," reflecting deeply and shaking his head, "as I nivver remoind Sararann on."