Brad, like most of the people hereabout, spoke as though he had swallowed a raw potato, and it had stuck in his throat.
Even the North Northumbrian girls talk as if they suffered from chronic tonsillitis, or their tongues were too broad at the base.
When the dinner had been discussed, the dishes washed, and I had had a rest, the horses staggered down the hill and were put in.
I said to Brad, “How much, my friend?”
“Whhateveh yew plhease, sirr; you’gh a ghentleman,” replied Brad, trying apparently to swallow his tongue. I gave him two shillings.
No sooner had it been put in his trousers pocket than the coin started off on a voyage of discovery down his leg, and soon popped out on to the road. Brad evidently had sprung a leak somewhere, and for a time the money kept dropping from him. Whenever he moved he “layed” a coin, so to speak, and the last I saw of Brad he was leaning lazily against a fence counting his money.
I remember that near the borders we climbed a long, long hill, and were so happy when we got to the top of it—the horses panting and foaming, and we all tired and thirsty.
The view of the long stretch of blue hills behind as was very beautiful.
Here on the hilltop was an inn, with its gable and a row of stables facing the road, and here on a bit of grass we drew up, and determined to take the horses out for the midday halt. But we reckoned without our host. The place was called the Cat Inn.
The landlady was in the kitchen, making a huge pie.