She named her terms, adding, “Tak’ it or leave it.”
“I’ll tak’ it,” said he. “Theer, that job’s sattled. Now then, missus—Mrs Whiteside; that’s yo’r name, isn’t it?”
“Miss Whiteside,” corrected Jinny, preceding him down the stairs, “I were never wed.”
“Oh,” said he, with a quizzical look, “what were the lads about? Well, Miss Whiteside, I hope you are satisfied?”
“I’ll let yo’ know that at the week-end,” said Jinny. “What met yo’r name be?”
“Luke Kershaw,” responded he.
“Well, ’tis as good a name as any other. Theer’s one thing, Luke, yo’ mun keep to the rules o’ the house. Yo’ll find out about ’em soon enough,” she added, in reply to his questioning look. “Fetch yo’r things now, I mun get agate wi’ my wark.”
When Luke returned dinner was set forth, and his fellow-lodger, who was likewise his fellow-servant at the railway station, was already seated. Miss Whiteside set before them a deep dish, containing thick slices of bacon done after the incomparable rustic fashion, and emitting a most appetising odour; and jerking open the oven-door, produced therefrom a tin full of smoking potatoes, nicely browned in dripping, which she rapidly proceeded to transfer to the hot dish lying ready to hand before the fire.
“My word,” exclaimed Luke, rubbing his hands, “this is what yo’ may call a gradely do, John. Does yon lass treat yo’ so well every day?”
“Noan so ill,” interpolated Jinny, “though ’tisn’t always bacon day. Now then, pull up, an’ we’s ax a blessin’.”