"There's a saying, Griff Lummax, that lang i' th' leg spells soft i' th' heäd," he observed, repeating his favourite little pleasantry.
A chuckle sounded from the bystanders. Griff stopped on the lowest step, took his pipe out of his mouth, and regarded Strangeways with an air of quiet gravity; when he spoke, it was with a good Yorkshire brogue that not one of the bystanders could have bettered.
"There's another saying, mate. Lang i' th' drink spells short i' th' wit."
A big laugh went up at that. They were fond of Griff at Marshcotes, and they liked to find him ready with his tongue. Joe's face grew red, with a dash of purple about the gills. He had nothing to say, so confined himself to filling the doorway a little more completely.
"I want to pass," said Griff.
"Oh, tha dost, dost 'a? Well, it's gooid for young 'uns to want."
"I want to pass," repeated Griff.
"So tha said," responded the quarryman, emboldened by the other's quietness. "And how if tha'rt not going to be let pass?"
Griff said not another word, but took the four steps in one easy bound, twisted Joe round in his hands, set his foot to the man's heel and his right arm to his chest, and lowered him gently to the ground, where he lay with his feet on the threshold and his head on the bottom step. Then he went indoors and did his business.
"It's time tha wert wending home, Joe," suggested one of the crowd. "It taks a likelier nor thee to tackle Griff Lummax."