“You had best let the snuffling waistrel go,” said one of the men in a surly tone. “Maybe he never fainted at all.”
It was the blacksmith who had growled at the mention of Ralph's name in Ralph's absence. They called him Joe Garth.
“Be silent, you loon,” answered Robbie Anderson, turning upon the last speaker.
Ralph seemed not to have heard him.
“Here,” he said, tossing Sim's coat to Matthew, who had returned with a new pipe to his seat in the chimney corner, “dry that at the fire.” The coat had been growing hard with the frost.
“This wants the batling stone ower it,” said the old weaver, spreading it out before him.
“See to this, schoolmaster,” said Ralph, throwing Sim's cap into his lap.
Monsey jumped, with a scream, out of his seat as though stung by an adder.
Ralph looked at him for a moment with an expression of pity.
“I might have known you were timid at heart, schoolmaster. Perhaps you're gallant over a glass.”