gates about which was gathered a thickening concourse of men, women, lads, children, horses, carts, donkeys. He paused and rubbed the crook of his ashplant against his chin.
"This'll be t' market," he said to himself. "Gow! they're a queer looking lot this here to be goin' to market. They look more like as if they'd come out o' t' gaol yonder. I'm glad I took advice and left mi watch and chain and mi brass wi' t' hotel folk. Howsomiver, Roger Mallins, mi lad, here we are, and in we go!"
Once within the vast, four-square enclosure Roger Mallins eyed everything which presented itself to him with curiosity and wonder. He wondered who the people could be who wanted to buy furniture so old and decrepit that it seemed only fit for firewood; carpets so worn out that they were only fit for dust heaps; odds and ends of china and earthenware that appeared to have been collected from middens. He stared at the booths on which cheap haberdashery and glittering jewellery were displayed; at the men who, having no booths, spread out on the grass-grown surface of the market-ground all manner of flotsam and jetsam from heaps of scrap iron to books and pamphlets in the last and most woeful stages of neglect and decay. He marvelled at the people who thronged about him; at their speech, their manners, their attire; himself, in his good suit of honest, substantial stuff; his great coat of stout Melton cloth, through which no wind, whether of December or March, could penetrate, seemed to be of a vastly different world to that in which these human scavengers hung about the refuse heaps in which they took such obvious interest. That there was some merchandise of value in this strange Vanity Fair the Yorkshire-man's shrewd eye was quick to perceive, but that fact afforded him no amusement; what tickled his curiosity and aroused his senses was the other and newer one, that here were folk—hundreds, thousands of folk—who hovered about piles and spreads of mere rubbish as the foulest flies of the hedgerows hover around a dung-heap on a hot day.
"Ecod, this is t' rummest market I iver set ees on!" he said, with a chuckle of contemptuous laughter. "I wonder what they'd say to this i' our part o' t' world? Market, say ye? Gow, wheer's t' cattle, and t' sheep, and t' pigs, and t' hosses? An' by mi soul, theer is a hoss, and a bonny hoss an' all—wo'th about a fi'-pun note!"
Between two rows of the unused stalls, in a quiet part of the market in which a few miserable horses, vagabond donkeys, and certain goats of both sexes gave something of an agricultural touch to the scene, a gipsy-looking fellow was showing off such paces as an ill-bred and ill-fed cob still possessed. Round about lounged a number of men who appeared to have some connection with horses by the fact of their wearing billycock hats, large-pocketed coats, and very tight trousers, and cultivated a habit of carrying bits of straw between their lips. Amongst them was a man somewhat better dressed than the others, a fresh-complexioned man who carried, as Mallins did, a genuine ashplant, and had upon him a rustic air which betokened comparatively recent acquaintance with country life. Mallins at first glanced carelessly at this man; then he suddenly started, and looked carefully, then more carefully still; eventually, edging his way amongst the other men, he scrutinised him from head to foot. He drew back, screwing up his lips to a whistle.
"Psu!" he hissed between his teeth. "Yon's that theer Perris, 'at disappeared fro' Martinsthorpe yonder a piece back—I'll be dall'd if it isn't! He's grown a beard, but it's him. By Gow! him here, an' all that theer talk about his wife—"
The men around the miserable cob moved further away, chaffering and babbling, and Perris was left standing a little apart. Mallins hesitated a moment, and then went up to him.
"Ye'll excuse me, sir," he said, with an apologetic smile, "but aren't ye Mestur Perris, 'at used to farm at Martinsthorpe? I farm at Woodbridge, a few o' miles away fro' Martinsthorpe, but I'm sewer I've met ye, Mestur Perris, at market and auction days,"
Perris's face had flushed at Mallins's first words, and he edged away, eyeing the stranger defiantly. His eyes grew sullen and threatening.
"Ye've made a mistake," he said. "Ye've—" But there he paused, and walked a step or two into the throng. Turning, he looked back at Mallins with a glance which seemed to say, "Don't you interfere with me, because I won't be interfered with."
Mallins stood where Perris had left him, still watching. He shook his head, and presently taking off his flat-topped billycock, produced a highly-coloured handkerchief and polished his forehead. By the time he had replaced handkerchief and hat his thoughts had collected themselves and his mind was made up. He advanced towards Perris, who was again left outside the crowd, and he boldly tapped him on the shoulder.
"It's no use, Perris," he said. "I know yer—ye're t' man. I know yer, for all 'at ye've grown that theer beard. An' I don't want to shove misen on to ye, nor onny other man, but—hevn't ye heerd t' news about ye're wife?"
Perris, who had averted his face at Mallins's second approach, turned sharply.
"I've heerd nowt," he muttered. "Nowt! An' didn't want!"
Mallins opened his mouth in sheer astonishment. Unconsciously he laid a hand on Perris's arm and drew him aside.
"What!" he exclaimed. "D'ye mean to tell me 'at ye don't know? Don't ye read t' newspaper?" Perris shook his head sullenly.
"I niver read t' newspaper," he replied. "I know nowt."
Mallins drew him still further away, and his voice sank to a whisper.
"What!" he said. "Don't ye know what's happened to ye're wife?"
"Tell yer I know nowt," repeated Perris, with stubborn insistence.
Mallins drew back and looked at Perris in undisguised wonder. Then he advanced again, speaking in a loud whisper.
"She's i' danger o' bein' hanged!" he said.
Perris frowned. He had begun tapping the stones at their feet with the ferrule of his ashplant, and the tapping grew more insistent.
"For why?" he asked.
"Why, for t' murder o' yon Pippany Webster, 'at used to work for ye!" answered Mallins sharply. "Gow niver heerd t' like o' this here! I couldn't ha' believed 'at ye'd niver heerd on it. It's all t' talk o.' t' countryside, man. But I reckon 'at them as lives i' London niver hears nowt o' what's going on down i' our parts. Howsomiver, Perris, that's t' Gospil truth. Gow!—I niver knew owt like this—it fair caps me!"
Perris stood like a man who has just awakened from some strange and unnatural sleep. He stared about him—at the people, the houses round the market, at the great tower in its centre, at the sky, the ground; finally, he turned to Mallins.
"Tell about it," he said dully. "I know nowt."
Mallins again took off his hat and rubbed his head.
"I'll tell ye all I know," he replied, "if ye'll come and tak' a glass somewhere, quiet, like. I'm fair moydered wi' this here—niver hed such a surprise in mi life. I'm ditherin'!—wheer can we tak' a glass i' comfort?"
Without answer Perris made a sidelong motion of his head, and began to make his way through the crowd. He led Mallins across the market to one of the great taverns which stand at its corners, and passing into its recesses with the knowledge of one well accustomed to them, piloted him into an empty room. He maintained his silence until he and his companion had been provided with a generous measure of spirits; even then, he waited for Mallins to speak.
"Well, it's a reight dinger is this, Perris!" said Mallins at last. "Ye tell me 'at ye know nowt o' t' matter?"
"I've heerd nowt o' that part o' t' world sin' I left it," answered Perris. "An' didn't want to, neyther."
Mallins
