The little bent figure turned slowly and Murdoch felt himself transfixed by the gaze of a pair of large keen eyes. They had been handsome eyes half a century before, and the wrinkled and seamed face had had its comeliness too.
"Tha said he wur a workin' mon," she cried, after a pause. "What did tha tell me that theer fur?"
"He is a workin' mon," said Janey. "He's getten his work-cloas on now. Does na tha see 'em?"
"Cloas!" announced the Voice again. "Cloas i'deed! A mon is na made out o' cloas. I've seed workin' men afore i' my day, an' I know 'em."
Then she extended her hand, crooking the forefinger like a claw, in a beckoning gesture.
"Coom tha here," she commanded, "an set thysen down to talk to me."
She gave the order in the manner of a female potentate, and Murdoch obeyed her with a sense of overpowering fascination.
"Wheer art tha fro'?" she demanded.
He made his reply, "From America," as distinct as possible, and was relieved to find that it reached her at once.