Her son laughed, but there was the note of forced merriment in his voice.
“Where do they say he is—Lancaster?”
“That's it, not a doubt on't.”
“Were they sure of him—the man at Lancaster?”
“No, but I were when they telt me what mak of man it was.”
The blacksmith laughed again over a chisel which he was tempering.
“It's nothing to me, is it, mother?”
“Nowt in the warld, Joey, ma lad.”
“They are after him for a traitor, but I cannot see as it's anything to me what they do with him when they catch hod on him; it's nothing to me, is it, mother?”
“Nowt.”