"She's gayly, sir; she's gayly," said the charcoal-burner shortly, his mouth in his can of tea.
The gentleman smiled from the teeth out. After a pause, he said: "I suppose it isn't pleasant when one of your hurdles is blown down, and the charcoal burning," indicating the wooden hurdles which had been propped about the half-built charcoal stack.
"Ey, it's gay bad wark, to be sure—being dragged into the fire."
The dog had risen with a startled movement. Following the upward direction of the animal's nose, the gentleman said, "Whose sheep are those on the ghyll yonder?"
"Auld Mr. Ritson's, them herdwicks."
The sheep were on a ridge of shelving rock.
"Dangerous spot, eh?"
"Ey, it's a bent place. They're verra clammersome, the black-faced sorts."
"I'll bid you good-day, Matthew." The yellow-haired elderly gentleman was moving off. He walked with a jerk and a spring on his toes. "And mind you take your daughter to the new doctor at Keswick," he said at parting.
"It's not doctoring that'll mend Mercy," the charcoal-burner muttered, when the other had gone.