With the schoolmaster's awakening the conversation in the inn seemed likely to take a livelier turn. Even the whistling sleet appeared to become less fierce and terrible. True, the stalwart dalesman on the door bench yawned and slept as before; but even Ralph's firm lower lip began to relax, and he was never a gay and sportive elf. The rest of the company charged their pipes afresh and called on the hostess for more spiced ale.
“'Blessing on your heart,' says the proverb, 'you brew good ale.' It's a Christian virtue, eh, Father?” said Monsey, addressing Matthew in the opposite corner.
“Praise the ford as ye find it,” said that sage; “I've found good yal maks good yarn. Folks that wad put doon good yal ought to be theirselves putten doon.”
“Then you must have been hanged this many a long year, Father Matthew,” said Monsey, “for you've put down more good ale than any man in Wythburn.”
Old Matthew had to stand the laugh against himself this time. In the midst of it he leaned over to Ralph, and, as though to cover his discomfiture, whispered, “He's gat a lad's heart, the laal man has.”
Then, with the air of one about to communicate a novel idea,—
“And sic as ye gie, sic will ye get, frae him.”
“Well, well,” he added aloud, “ye munnet think I cannot stand my rackups.”
The old man, despite this unexpected fall, was just beginning to show his mettle. The sententious graybeard was never quite so happy, never looked quite so wise, never shook his head with such an air of good-humored consequence, never winked with such profundity of facetiousness, as when “the laal limber Frenchman” was giving a “merry touch.” Wouldn't Monsey sing summat and fiddle to it too; aye, that he would, Mattha knew reet weel.
“Sing!” cried the little man,—“sing! Monsieur, the dog shall try me this conclusion. If he wag his tail, then will I sing; if he do not wag his tail, then—then will I not be silent. What say you Laddie?” The dog responded to the appeal with an opportune if not an intelligent wag of that member on which so momentous an issue hung. From one of the rosy closets in the wall a fiddle was forthwith brought out, and soon the noise of the tempest was drowned in the preliminary tuning of strings and running of scales.