“Yes, master,” said the man, with surly readiness.
“It may be some accident,” continued Mr Willows.
“Oh, I pray not, sir,” said the woman. “Those two dear lads, and Mr Manners, who is always so cheerful!”
“Come then,” cried Mr Willows. “What are you looking for?”
“Rope, sir,” said the man, gruffly. “It may be useful—and a lantern. We shall want it at least;” and as he spoke the words he pulled out of the chest over which he had been stooping a coil of hempen rope. He then took a little lantern from a ledge and lit it. “Now I am ready, master.”
“You are an excellent fellow, Drinkwater,” said the mill-owner, clapping his hand on the other’s shoulder, as they stepped out.
“Nay, nay, master,” said the man. “I have the bad fits on me sometimes, and bad they are.”
“Bad fits?” said Mr Willows, in a puzzled way. “What do you mean?”
The man nodded.
“Yes,” he said, “yes. That’s what they are. I can’t help them, master.”