All because of the thrashing he’d given young Ned Oldishaw. If she didn’t want the cub’s neck broken she’d better keep him out of mischief. Young Ned knew what he’d get if he came meddling with his sweetheart.
It had happened yesterday afternoon, Sunday, when he had gone down with Dorsy to the “King’s Arms” to see her aunt. They were sitting out on the wooden bench against the inn wall when young Ned began it. He could see him now with his arm round Dorsy’s neck and his mouth gaping.
And Dorsy laughing like a silly fool and the old woman snorting and shaking.
He could hear him. “She’s my cousin if she is your sweetheart. You can’t stop me kissing her.” Couldn’t he!
Why, what did they think? When he’d given up his good job at the Darlington Motor Works to come to Eastthwaite and black Mr. Greathead’s boots, chop wood, carry coal and water for him, and drive his shabby secondhand car. Not that he cared what he did so long as he could live in the same house with Dorsy Oldishaw. It wasn’t likely he’d sit like a bloody Moses, looking on, while Ned—
To be sure, he had half killed him. He could feel Ned’s neck swelling and rising up under the pressure of his hands, his fingers. He had struck him first, flinging him back against the inn wall, then he had pinned him—till the men ran up and dragged him off.
And now they were all against him. Dorsy was against him. She had said she was afraid of him.
“Steven,” she had said, “tha med ’a killed him.”
“Well—p’r’aps next time he’ll knaw better than to coom meddlin’ with my lass.”
“I’m not thy lass, ef tha canna keep thy hands off folks. I should be feared for my life of thee. Ned wurn’t doing naw ’arm.”