“I shouldn’t know one from the other,” he said; “but if you say it sounds more Polish, I bet it does.”
“Would you like to go into a cottage?” she inquired. “I think it might be as well. They will like the attention.”
“Will they? Of course I’ll go if you think that. What shall I say?” he asked somewhat anxiously.
“If you think the cottage looks clean, you might tell them so, and ask a few questions about things. And you must be sure to inquire about Susan Hibblethwaite’s legs.”
“What?” ejaculated Tembarom.
“Susan Hibblethwaite’s legs,” she replied in mild explanation. “Susan is Mrs. Hibblethwaite’s unmarried sister, and she has very bad legs. It is a thing one notices continually among village people, more especially the women, that they complain of what they call ‘bad legs.’ I never quite know what they mean, whether it is rheumatism or something different, but the trouble is always spoken of as ‘bad legs.’ And they like you to inquire about them, so that they can tell you their symptoms.”
“Why don’t they get them cured?”
“I don’t know, I’m sure. They take a good deal of medicine when they can afford it. I think they like to take it. They’re very pleased when the doctor gives them ‘a bottle o’ summat,’ as they call it. Oh, I mustn’t forget to tell you that most of them speak rather broad Lancashire.”
“Shall I understand them?” Tembarom asked, anxious again. “Is it a sort of Dago talk?”
“It is the English the working-classes speak in Lancashire. ‘Summat’ means ‘something.’ ‘Whoam’ means ‘home.’ But I should think you would be very clever at understanding things.”