“Whether it’s pudden or parish or pelf,
He’s a noodle what doesn’t look after hisself.”
“I wouldn’t take my Bible oath, neighbours, to them two words ‘parish’ and ‘noodle’ but t’ meanin’ was t’ same, chewse how.”
Inman thought this a fitting moment for breaking silence.
“Well done, grandad,” he exclaimed. “You deserve your pot filling for that. Take it out o’ this, landlord,” he said, tossing a half-crown to that worthy who was standing with his back to the fire; “or rather fill up these other pots, and let me know if I owe you ought.”
The act of generosity evoked no response, except that one or two of the younger men grunted a “Good ’ealth!” as they raised the mug to their lips, but Inman was in no way disconcerted.
“A moorman needs no introduction to moormen,” he said pleasantly. “I don’t blame you for being shy o’ strangers, but that’ll wear off. We shall neighbour kindly, I don’t doubt, for I may as well tell you I’ve signed on for Mr. Briggs, and I shall be making my home with you.”
A chilling silence greeted this communication, and the air thickened with the reek from a dozen pipes, diligently pulled at.
“It’s every man for himself as our friend here remarked a minute or two ago,” he continued. “There’d be no progress if it wasn’t so. It’s the survival of the fittest, as these science chaps put it. The weak have to go to the wall, or we’d be a nation of noodles before long. You were right, grandad; noodle’s the word.”
Even yet nobody spoke. Inman’s speech had cut across the smooth flow of conversation like another Moses’ rod, and dried it up. Every man stared stonily at the deal table or sand-strewn floor, and the landlord frowned and found himself tongue-tied.