style="font-size:15px;"> "Weel, that is a stiffener," he said, drawing a long breath.
"What's a stiffener?" said Job, sharply.
"That 'at you're telling for gospel truth." Then, turning to the blacksmith, the peddler pointed the shank of his pipe at the mason, and said: "What morning was it as he found Paul Ritson taking a bath to hissel' in the kirk-yard?"
"Why, yesterday morning," said the smith.
"Well, he bangs them all at lying!" said Gubblum.
"What dusta say?" shouted Job, with sudden fury.
"As you've telt us a lie," answered Gubblum.
"Sista, Gubblum, if you don't take that word back I'll – I'll throw you into the water-butt!"
"And what would I do while you were thrang at that laal job?" asked the peddler.
The blacksmith interposed.
"Sec a rumpus!" he said; "you're too sudden in your temper, Job."
"Some folks are ower much like their namesakes in the Bible," said Gubblum, resuming his pipe.
"Then what for did he say it worn't true as I found young Ritson yesterday morning wet to the skin in the church-yard?" said Job, ignoring the peddler.
"Because he warn't there," said Gubblum.
Job lost all patience.
"Look here," he said, "if you're not hankering for a cold bath on a frosty morning, laal man, I don't know as you've got any call to say that again!"
"He warn't there," the "laal man" muttered doggedly.
The blacksmith had plunged his last heat into the water trough to cool, and a cloud of vapor filled the smithy.
"Lord A'mighty!" he said, laughing, "that's the way some folks go off – all of a hiss and a smoke."
"He warn't there," mumbled the peddler again, impervious to the homely similitude.
"How are you so certain sure?" said Dick of the Syke. "You warn't there yourself, I reckon."
"No; but I was somewhere else, and so was Paul Ritson. I slept at the Pack House in Kezzick night afore last, and he did the same."
"Did you see him there?" said the blacksmith.
"No; but Giles Raisley saw him, and he warn't astir when Giles went on his morning shift at eight o'clock."
The blacksmith broke into a loud guffaw.
"Tell us how he was at the Hawk and Heron in London at midsummer."
"And so he was," said Gubblum, unabashed.
"Willy-nilly, ey?" said the blacksmith, pausing over the anvil with uplifted hammer, the lurid reflection of the hot iron on his face.
"Maybe he had his reasons for denying hisself," said Gubblum.
The blacksmith laughed again, tapped the iron with the hand-hammer, down came the sledge, and the flakes flew.
Two miners entered the smithy.
"Good-morning, John; are ye gayly?" said one of them.
"Gayly, gayly! Why, it's Giles hissel'!"
"Giles," said the peddler, "where was Paul Ritson night afore last?"
"Abed, I reckon," chuckled one of the new-comers.
"Where abed?"
"Nay, don't ax me. Wait – night afore last? That was the night he slept at Janet's, wasn't it?"
Gubblum's eyes twinkled with triumph.
"What, did I tell you?"
"What call had he to sleep at Keswick?" said the blacksmith; "it's no'but four miles from his own bed at the Ghyll."
"Nay, now, when ye ax the like o' that – "
Tom, the postman, stopped his grindstone and snuckered huskily:
"Maybe he's had a fratch with yon brother – yon Hugh."
"I'm on the morning shift this week, and Mother Janet she said: 'Giles,' she said, 'the brother of your young master came late last night for a bed.'"
"Job, what do you say to that?" shouted the blacksmith above the pulsating of the bellows, and with the sharp white lights of the leaping flames on his laughing face.
"Say! That they're a pack of liars!" said the mason, catching up his untempered chisels and flinging out of the smithy.
When he had gone, Gubblum removed his pipe and said calmly: "He's ower much like his Bible namesake in temper – that's the on'y fault of Job."
The parson, in the field outside, had stood in the turn-rows, resting on his plow-handles. He had been drawling "Bonny lass, canny lass;" but, catching the sound of angry words, he had paused and listened. When Job, the mason, flung away, he returned to his plowing, and disappeared down the furrow, the boy whistling at his horse's head.
"Why, Mattha, it is thee?" said the blacksmith, observing for the first time the second of the new-comers; "and how fend ye?"
"Middling weel, John, middling weel," said Matthew, in a low voice, resting on the edge of the trough.
It was Laird Fisher, more bent than of old, with deeper lines in his grave face and with yet more listless eyes. He had brought two picks for sharpening.
"Got your smelting-house at wark down at the pit, Mattha?" asked the blacksmith.
"Ey, John, it's at wark – it's at wark."
The miller had turned to go, but he faced about with ready anger.
"Lord, yes, and a pretty pickle you and your gaffer's like to make of me. Wad ye credit it, John? they've built their smelting-house within half a rod of my mill. Half a rod; not a yard mair. When your red-hot rubbish is shot down your bank, where's it going to go, ey? That's what I want to know – where's it going to go?"
"Why, into your mill, of course," said Gubblum, with a wink, from the tool-chest. "That'll maybe help you to go by fire when you can't raise the wind."
"Verra good for thee, Gubblum," laughed the blacksmith.
"I'll have the law on them safe enough," said the miller.
"And where's your damages to come from?"
"From the same spot as all the rest of the brass – that's good enough for me."
Matthew's voice followed the insinuating guffaw.
"I spoke to Master Hugh yesterday. I telt him all you said about a wall."
"Well?"
"He won't build it."
"Of course not. Why didsta not speak to Paul?"
"No use in
