"How did it happen, Ancient?"
"Got tur'ble drunk, 'e did, over to Cranbrook—throwed Mr. Scrope, the Beadle, over the churchyard wall—knocked down Jeremy Tullinger, the Watchman, an' then—went to sleep. While 'e were asleep they managed, cautious-like, to tie 'is legs an' arms, an' locked 'im up, mighty secure, in the vestry. 'Ows'ever, when 'e woke up 'e broke the door open, an' walked out, an' nobody tried to stop 'im—not a soul, Peter."
"And when was all this?"
"Why, that's the very p'int," chuckled the Ancient, "that's the wonnerful part of it, Peter. It all 'appened on Sat'day night, day afore yesterday as ever was—the very same day as I says to Simon, 'mark my words, 'e won't last the month out.'"
"And where is he now?"
"Nobody knows, but theer's them as says they see 'im makin' for Sefton
Woods." Hereupon, breakfast done, I rose, and took my hat.
"Wheer away, Peter?"
"To the forge; there is much work to be done, Ancient."
"But Jarge bean't theer to 'elp ye."
"Yet the work remains, Ancient."