“Strike me lucky!” said Chirk blankly. “Wonder what his lay is? He ain’t one as suffers from windmills in the head neither. Nor he wouldn’t pike on the bean without he took Ben along with him—leastways, not to my way of thinking.”
The Captain laid a plate and a knife and fork before him. “Help yourself! Is he fond of Ben?”
“Well, I wouldn’t say that,” temporized Chirk. “He’s a hard sort of a cove, if you take me, but he done his duty by the boy, so far as he was able.” He picked up the carving knife, but lowered it again, looking in a puzzled way at his host. “I don’t know where Ned is, nor what lay he’s on, and another thing I don’t know is what your lay is! And nor I don’t know what the likes of you are doing in this ken, because from the way you talk you’re a nib-cove!”
“Oh, I’m here by accident!” replied John, pouring the beer into two mugs. “I came to the pike on Friday night, and found Ben alone, and scared out of his wits, so as I had had enough of the weather, and he was afraid to be alone, I racked up for the night—thinking that his father would very likely return before morning. But he didn’t, so here I am still.”
“So here you are still!” agreed Chirk, looking at him very hard. “I suppose you’re minding the gate, what’s more!”
“That’s it.”
“Well, if it is, you must be dicked in the nob!” said Chirk frankly.
John grinned at him. “No, I’m quite sane. I’ve several reasons for remaining here. Besides, I don’t know what the devil to do about the boy. He’s scared of being sent to work in Sheffield, if his father don’t return, and I’ve promised he shan’t be thrown on the Parish.”
“Scared of that, is he?” Chirk gave a short laugh. “Ay, he might well be! That’s the way I started, when my old dad tipped off. By the time my mother had buried him decent we were properly dished-up. A couple of hordes—what you call shillings, Mr. Nib-Cove!—a groat, and three grigs was all she had left in the stocking. So I went to work in a factory. Not here: up north, it was. Just about Ben’s age, I must ha’ been. Three years I stayed, and I ain’t forgotten, though I’m turned forty now, nor I never will, not if I reach fourscore! I loped off when my mother went to roost.”
“Was that when you took to the bridle-lay?” John asked.