“We’ve had no words, lad,” he said. “He’s getten t’ business, that’s all, so I’ve to shift—at my age, and it’ll be Christmas to-morrow. Damn him, Maniwel!”
“Nay, lad,” said the other sadly, “neither thee nor me’s no ’casion to do that, for he’s damning himself, I’m flayed. We’ll see what he’s like i’ t’ morning: we’re none that short o’ room but what we can put tha up for a night; aye, and for good, if it comes to that. Tha needn’t dream about t’ Union, Baldwin, nor t’ devil, neither. What say you, Jagger?”
“He can stay for aught I care,” replied his son, though the concession lacked graciousness.
“You hear that!” Maniwel dulled his perceptions to the want of warmth. “My bed’ll hold two, but tha’ll happen sleep better by thiself, and t’ sofa’ll hold me nicely....”
“He’ll have my bed,” said Jagger, “so that’s settled.” Then he went over to his father and looked hard in his face.
“Didn’t I tell you he was a devil?” he said; and Maniwel did not find the inquiry ambiguous.
CHAPTER XXIII
IN WHICH NANCY IS OVERWHELMED
ALTHOUGH the excitements of a moorland village are ordinarily few in number and mild in quality they are of sturdy habit when they do occur, and too well cared for to die of inanition like the starved and overcrowded sensations of the towns.
Rumour which flies on swift wing in the busy centres and is quickly chased away by denial, finds a comfortable breeding-ground in the lonely places, and is cherished by the natives, who regard it as a veritable bird of paradise with a voice of which only the echo is heard.