‘Well, they gets theirsel’s married wivoot askin’ leave either o’ the “spirrits” or o’ Tom, an’ as nowt happened, an’ Jack forbye was tarr’ble lucky iv his cavils[5] just efter his marriage, even Mary began ti laugh at the idea o’ Tom an’ his “spirrits” an’ aal.
‘They was tarr’ble happy those two, an’ I mind well hoo proud and triumphant-like Jack looked as he slapped us on the back one early summer mornin’ as we went ti the pit on the fore-shift, for I was only a hewer then, same as himsel’, an’ not what I is now—checkweighman, an’ half ov a magistrate as well, bein’ vice-chairman o’ wor lokil District Council[6]—an’ he cries, “Geordie,” he says, “Geordie, man, I’s that happy I can scarcely haud myself in. There’s nowt I couldn’t do. I could hew as much in one shift as any five men together in two; I could lepp ower a hoos, I’s that cobby. I could challenge wee Bob Aitchison, t’ sprinter, to a quarter-mile, an’ lay t’ fortnight’s wages that I’d best him too. I could sing, I b’lieve,” he says, an’ wiv a solemn voice on him he adds: “Ay, an’ I could even put up a bit prayer—though I’s not much ov a Churchman—almost as weel as t’ priest himself. An’ I’ll tell thoo why. It’s because Mary tells me that there’s likely gawin’ to be an addition to the fam’ly party sometime shortly. She’s a rare well-bred un, too, is Mary, an’ I’ll lay it’s twins.” “I’ll gie ye the best o’ luck,” says I, “but twins is tarr’ble expensive, for I’ve tried ’em,” says I. “Man alive!” cries he, holdin’ up his arm—a proper colossyum ov a limb—“look at that. If that cannot win bread for a dozen o’ twins, then a lighted candle cannot fire gas,” says he.
‘He was a fine brave man,’ continued ‘the Heckler’ slowly, ‘an’ I can see him still standin’ on the heapstead, an’ I mind hoo pleased he was that he could hear a lark singin’ high i’ the air ower heid just as the sun peeped up before we went doon i’ the cage that mornin’ for the last time together—just as full o’ life an’ vigour he was as thoo is noo—but for all that it was the last time I saw him alive i’ this world.
‘It was the vary next mornin’ that he was killed, but I wasn’t doon the pit that day, for I had happened a bit accident the day before through a shot that went wrang on us, an’ I was laid up i’ bed for a week wiv a bandage ower my eyes. I bear the marks yet,’ and he pointed to some small blue punctures, not unlike shot marks, that the gunpowder had left round about his left eyelid and cheekbone.
‘Aal I could hear was that he had been knocked doon biv a runaway galloway pony that a lad called Harry Nicholson used to drive. Harry, ye must ken, was a bit weak iv his intellectuals, hevin’ been born iv an ower great hurry like before his bit intellect had had time ti ripen, through his mother’s gettin’ a gliff at an accident that had happened her man doon the pit.
‘Well, Harry was a driver, as I said, an’ he an’ the galloway was comin’ doon an incline wiv a full tub, an’ the galloway, hevin’ bolted, dragged the tub off the lines, an’ came blindly tearin’ along this side an’ that smash up inti Jack as he rounded an awkward corner. He was fearfu’ knocked aboot when he was picked up, they said, his head bashed in bi the tub’s wheels, an’ there he lay, dead as mutton.
‘The crowner comes doon an’ sits on the body, an’ the jury bring it in “Death by mis’dventure” slap off, bein’ iv a hurry likelies ti get oot for their dinners, an’ there the whole thing would have ended wiv a buryin’ an’ a gettin’ up mevvies ov a bit subscription fer his missus an’ the bairn; ay, that’s hoo it would have ended up had it not been for “the Heckler.”
‘I wasn’t allowed oot by the doctor, sae I was just forced to think it oot aal maa lane—mevvies havin’ my eyes blindfolded helped us a bit; anyways, I lay there quiet i’ bed an’ found I could think it aal oot like Gladstone; ay, an’ I tell thoo that Gladstone an’ Horbert Spencor together cudn’t have thought harder than I did at that period o’ time, nor have pieced the puzzle together bettor than us. It sounds like a bit brag, mevvies, but it isn’t, by Gox! it’s just the naked truth.
‘Well, there I lay between the sheets wi’ my “linin’s” on, detarmined that if there had been any foul play nowt but death should stop us frae findin’ it oot. First thing I does is ti get the wife ti ask Harry Nicholson in ti tea wiv us, so as ti hear aal aboot hoo it happened.
‘Well, efter he has been well filled oot wi’ tea, an’ spice loaf, an’ jam an’ aal, I gets him ti tell the whole story, an’ then I axes him a few supernumerary questions.