"Tee a pint o' yal down the Methodee's back," shouted Dick, the miller, and in another moment Brother Peter was covered with the contents of the broken bottle.
A loud, roystering laugh filled the air, and echoed from the hills.
"What a breck!" tittered the postman.
"What a breck!" shouted the blacksmith.
"What a breck!" roared the miller.
"Get ower me 'at can!" mimicked Natt.
"He's got a lad's heart, has Mister Paul," said the landlord of the Flying Horse.
"Ey, he's a fair fatch," echoed little Tom o' Dint.
Leaving Peter to shake himself dry of the liquor that dripped from him in froth, the noisy gang reeled down the road, the yelping dogs careering about them, and the cocks squawking with the hugs they received from the twitching arms of the men convulsed with laughter.
At the head of the Vale of Newlands there is a clearing that was made by the lead miners of two centuries ago. It lies at the feet of an ampitheater of hills that rise peak above peak, and die off depth beyond depth. Of the old mines nothing remains but the level cuttings in the sides of the fells, and here and there the washing-pits cut out of the rock at your feet. Fragments of stone lie about, glistening with veins of lead, but no sound of pick or hammer breaks the stillness, and no cart or truck trundles over the rough path. It is a solitude in which one might forget that the world is full of noise.