He addressed me in a sweet, hearty voice, quite in discord with his gruff manner. No man could be a bear and roar so gently. I perceived the Lancashire accent. The dialect, if it had ever been there, was worn away. Tones are older in a man than words. He can learn a new tongue; his organ he hardly alters. If Nature has ordained a voice to howl, or snarl, or yelp, or bray, it will do so now and then, stuff our mouths with pebbles as we may.
Padiham’s frank, amiable voice neutralized his surly manner, as he said: “Now then, young man, what are you staring at? Do you want anything with me? Say so, if you do. If not, don’t stand idling here; but go about your business.”
“I want you to do a job for me.”
“Suppose I say, I don’t want to do it?”
“Then I’ll try to find a better man.”
“Umph! where’ll you look for him?”
“In the first shop where there’s one that knows enough to give good words to a stranger.”
“Well; say what your job is.”
“You’re ready to do it then?”
“I’m not ready to waste any more time in talk.”