“Seven miles by t’ low road,” replied Maniwel; “and a trifle less by that over t’ top.”
“I came by the straight road last night,” Inman replied grimly, “and I’m having no more of straight roads. I’ll give the low road a turn in future.”
They were looking into each other’s faces, and Inman was puzzled and half irritated by the expression of shrewdness and serenity that he saw on his side of the picture. Instinctively he recognised in the father a man of different calibre from the son; a man whose gentleness could not be mistaken for weakness; a man whose eyes and jaw told conflicting stories of their owner’s character. The note of easy playfulness in Maniwel’s voice vexed him because it placed him at a disadvantage.
“I don’t know about t’ top road being straight. They’re both about as straight as a dog’s hind leg if it comes to that. They’re same as lots of us folk—they go straight when it’s easier then to go crook’d. But there’ll be a grand breeze on t’ top this morning, and all t’ scents in t’ moor’s bottle let loose into t’ bargain.”
Inman stared at him and broke into a laugh.
“I’m no judge of scents and hair-oil,” he replied. “I leave that sort o’ thing for women and dandies. The low road’ll do for me.”
He turned away and at that moment Hannah opened the house-door and beckoned her father with an upward movement of the hand, whereupon he went down and stood beside her in the angle of the bridge.
“That’ll be him that’s got Jagger’s job,” she said, “and it reminds me that t’ fat’s in t’ fire and no mistake”; but the wry smile about her lips and the light that shone in her grey eyes seemed to contradict the declaration.
“Then there’ll be a bit o’ spluttering, likely,” said her father calmly. “Whose fat is it?”
Hannah made a significant motion towards the upper storey and lowered her voice as she replied: