“Yes, zur; ’e broke ’is thigh come twenty year agone aboard the old Sarah. Sin’ then, seeing as ’e’s no good in the boats, ’e’s been doin’ odd gardenin’ jobs for the quality hereabouts. Like as not you’ll find him up-along. ’E lives in t’end cottage past the quay.”
The end cottage past the quay! It was in this direction that the miscreant had made off when Peter Craddock interrupted his operations.
Marner was at home. It was one of his bad days. The easterly wind generally affected his damaged hip.
“Is this your property?” asked Mr. Grant, holding up the syringe for inspection.
“Sure, ’tes, zur,” assented the old chap without hesitation. “If you’m wishful tu borrer ut you’m kindly welcome.”
“I haven’t come to borrow it, Mr. Marner,” rejoined Mr. Grant. “I’m here to return it to you. I found it up the lane. Silas Pescold told me it was yours.”
The old man puckered up his eye in astonishment.
“Found ’ut up-along, did ’e, zur?” he exclaimed. “That be tur’ble queer, seein’ as I locked ut in the shed las’ night.”
“At about what time?”
“Afore it wur dark, zur.”