By that time, ten o’clock, all three were chilled to the bone, after crossing those wide, open moorlands, where the keen wind cut their faces all the time. The landlady, a stout, cheerful person, soon busied herself to provide creature comforts for the travellers, and within a quarter of an hour all were seated at a substantial meal.
While the good woman was busying herself at table Ronnie suddenly became inquisitive, exclaiming:
“There’s a friend of mine, a Mr. Aylesworth, who often comes up to this neighbourhood. He lives in Leeds, but he rents a cottage somewhere about here. He’s a queer and rather lonely man. Do you happen to know him?”
“Oh, yes, sir! Mr. Aylesworth is quite well known in Hardraw. He has rented old Tom Dalton’s cottage, up on the hill at Simon Stone, for quite eighteen months now.”
“Is that far from here?”
“Only about half-a-mile up Buttertubs Pass.”
“Buttertubs! What a very curious name!” Beryl remarked. “Where does the pass lead to?”
“Why, straight up over Abbotside Common, just below Lovely Seat, and it comes out on the high road in Swale Dale, close to Thwaite.”
“Who is Dalton?” asked the airman.
“Old Farmer Dalton. He’s got several cottages on his place. He himself lives over at Gayle, close to Hawes.”