“It’s true, Maniwel; God’s truth it is,” the old woman across the hearth interposed sharply; “and no old wife’s tale, neither. Didn’t they bring your Uncle Ben back with a stroke on him and all his money ’at he’d piled up sunk like a rock i’ t’ Tarn; and him thankful for sup and bite out o’ them he’d looked down on. And there was your great-uncle, Rueben——”
“Aye, aye, mother,” her son broke in pleasantly; “and there was his father before him, that they buried at t’ cross roads with a stake in his inside and made a tale of. I know all t’ catalogue of shockers; but I’m t’ wrong man to be frightened o’ boggards, and I could wish our Jagger was. If t’ finger o’ duty pointed me to t’ town I’d follow it same as Luther talked about if it rained boggards and I’d to wade through ’em up to t’ waist, but I doubt if Jagger’s grit enough.”
“You’re over hard on him, father,” expostulated Hannah who was standing, dish-cloth in hand, at the scullery-door; and her brother forced a bitter laugh.
“What do I care how hard he is! I know he thinks I’m a milksop because I haven’t his spirit, and don’t laugh when things go all wrong. But where is there another thinks as he does ’at if you go straight all ’ll turn out for t’ best? What has he to show for his belief but an empty sleeve?”
A red flush surged over his neck and face as he completed the sentence; and half-ashamed of his outburst he looked into his father’s face.
“Nay, lad, you’ve no ’casion to run t’ red flag up,” Maniwel replied; but there was nothing bantering in his tone now, and his face had sobered. “If we’d windows to our hearts you’d happen be capped to see what there is inside o’ mine, both good and bad; but one thing you would find if you looked close—you’d find ’at my belief, as you call it, had brought me a deal more than an empty sleeve, and you’d see naught ’at I’m ashamed of in my thoughts of you.”
“You oughtn’t to have said that, Jagger,” said his sister reproachfully; but her father waved the rebuke aside.
“I’d sooner a blain showed on his lip than fester under t’ skin, and I’ve tried to learn you both to speak your minds. For twenty years I’ve done my best to walk t’ street called Straight, and I’ve got it rooted in my mind ’at there’s no better road. Baldwin favours t’ street called Crook’d, as long as it isn’t too crook’d, ’cause he thinks it’s a short cut to t’ Land o’ Plenty. I think he’s mista’en; but whether he is or no I should be sorry for any lad o’ mine to follow him; and that’s why I’m glad ’at Jagger goes by t’ straight road even if he grumbles at t’ ruts.”
There was just a hint of suspicion in the eyes Jagger turned on his father’s face but what he saw there reassured him and his brow cleared a little. His tone, however, was still gruff as he said:
“Crook’d ways seem to pay all right. They landed Baldwin’s feet in Mr. Clegg’s shoes and put money in his purse; and t’ street called Straight has done precious little for us. If it pays to do right, how is it that you happened your accident and how is it I get sacked? I suppose it’ll be made up to us i’ heaven!”