“Thou must come home, lovey,” said Sim, in a dismal voice. “I’m very bad. I’ve got money enew, too, now to keep us for weeks.”
“Where dids’t thou get money from?” said Mrs Slee, sharply.
“Never thou mind,” said Sim. “I’ve gotten it, and now come home.”
“But how did you get knocked about like that?” said the vicar, smiling to himself.
“That cursed Dicky Glaire set upon me,” moaned Sim, one of whose eyes was swollen up, while there was a cut across the bridge of his nose. “He’s mad wi’ me because I wouldn’t help him to carry off Daisy Banks to London, and he’s leathered me this how. But I’ll hev it out of him yet.”
“Did Dicky Glaire want yow to get her away?” said Mrs Slee.
“Yes, a coward, and I wouldn’t,” said Sim, “so he’s done it his sen.”
“Be careful what you are saying, Mr Slee,” said the vicar, snipping a strip of sticking-plaister off a piece in his pocket-book with his nail-scissors, and breathing upon it to make it warm.
“Keerful,” said Sim; “he deserves to be hung for it.”
“Do you mean to assert that Mr Glaire has done this? Because if so, you will have to substantiate your statement before a magistrate.”