“Addicted to dipsomania?”
“’Dicted to getting dead drunk. I’ve seen him so, scores o’ ’casions.”
“That’s not wise of Mr Murdock.”
“No, captain; ’ta’nt neyther wise nor well. All the worse, considerin’ the place where mostly he go to do his drinkin’.”
“Where may that be?”
“The Welsh Harp—up at Rogue’s Ferry.”
“Rogue’s Ferry? Strange appellation! What sort of place is it? Not very nice, I should say—if the name be at all appropriate.”
“It’s parfitly ’propriate, though I b’lieve it wa’nt that way bestowed. It got so called after a man the name o’ Rugg, who once keeped the Welsh Harp and the ferry too. It’s about two mile above, a little ways back. Besides the tavern, there be a cluster o’ houses, a bit scattered about, wi’ a chapel an’ a grocery shop—one as deals trackways, an’ a’nt partickler as to what they take in change—stolen goods welcome as any—ay, welcomer, if they be o’ worth. They got plenty o’ them, too. The place be a regular nest o’ poachers, an’ worse than that—a good many as have sarved their spell in the Penitentiary.”
“Why, Wingate, you astonish me! I was under the impression your Wyeside was a sort of Arcadia, where one only met with innocence and primitive simplicity.”
“You won’t meet much o’ either at Rogue’s Ferry. If there be an uninnocent set on earth it’s they as live there. Them Forest chaps we came ’cross a’nt no ways their match in wickedness. Just possible drink made them behave as they did—some o’ ’em. But drink or no drink it be all the same wi’ the Ferry people—maybe worse when they’re sober. Any ways they’re a rough lot.”