WHAT THIS BOOK IS ABOUT
For a short space Mr. Riley forsook the white for the red rose,
and wrote _The Lady of the Lawn_ as a result. He has now
definitely returned to his own country, and in his new novel is
told the story of Maniwel Drake, who has lost an arm; but
maintains his cheerful and genial nature, and Baldwin Briggs,
whose motto is “All for my-sen.”
The story deals with one of those contrasts of conflicting
personalities that Mr. Riley loves to draw. There are dramatic
episodes as well as character studies, and the local colour that
Mr. Riley loves to introduce. Above all there blows through the
book the breath of the Moors, without which a Riley book would
not be a Riley book.
=_BY THE SAME AUTHOR_=
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(ILLUSTRATED)
MEN OF
MAWM
BY
W. RILEY
HERBERT JENKINS LIMITED
3 YORK STREET, ST. JAMES’S
LONDON, S.W.1 ❦ ❦ MCMXXII
[Illustration]
_Printed in Great Britain by Love & Malcomson, Ltd._
_London and Redhill._
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I. IN WHICH INMAN ENTERS MAWM 7
II. INMAN RECEIVES A COLD RECEPTION AND SOME
INFORMATION 17
III. MANIWEL DRAKE MAKES A SUGGESTION 27
IV. THE WOMAN ENTERS WITH THE SERPENT 37
V. JAGGER DRAKE SETS HIS TEETH 48
VI. BALDWIN’S SCAFFOLDING GIVES WAY AND ALSO HIS
RESERVE 60
VII. NANCY SPEAKS HER MIND 69
VIII. NANCY QUESTIONS HER HEART AND MANIWEL
QUESTIONS HIS SON 80
IX. ONE LOVER WALKS OUT AND ANOTHER WALKS IN 91
X. THE COMPANY AT THE “PACKHORSE” IS INVITED TO
DRINK A HEALTH 101
XI. THE CONDITIONS ARE WINTRY 110
XII. BALDWIN’S SKY BECOMES SLIGHTLY OVERCAST 121
XIII. INMAN PROVES HIMSELF COMPETENT 131
XIV. JOHN CLEGG IS “WANTED” AND MANIWEL ISN’T 141
XV. THE VILLAGERS DISCUSS THE DISASTER 150
XVI. INMAN SHOWS THE SUBTLETY OF A VERY VENOMOUS
SERPENT 160
XVII. NANCY’S BABY IS BORN AND JAGGER LOSES HIS
TEMPER 170
XVIII. BALDWIN ALLOWS AN OPPORTUNITY TO SLIP 179
XIX. THE BILL OF SALE IS COMPLETED 190
XX. THERE IS A SENSATIONAL ROBBERY 202
XXI. IN WHICH EVENTS MOVE QUICKLY 210
XXII. BALDWIN FINDS NEW LODGINGS 221
XXIII. NANCY IS OVERWHELMED 231
XXIV. INMAN’S POPULARITY IS SEEN TO WAVER 241
XXV. NANCY DISCUSSES THE SITUATION WITH JAGGER 250
XXVI. MANIWEL LETS JAGGER INTO A SECRET 260
XXVII. NANCY PLAYS THE PART OF DETECTIVE 269
XXVIII. MANIWEL AND JAGGER JOIN IN THE GAME 280
XXIX. THE TABLES ARE TURNED MORE THAN ONCE 290
XXX. SWITHIN TELLS HIS STORY 300
XXXI. WE TAKE LEAVE OF THE MEN OF MAWM 309
MEN OF MAWM
CHAPTER I
IN WHICH JAMES INMAN ENTERS MAWM AND IS
FAVOURED BY FORTUNE
TO one who had no love for them the Yorkshire moors could hardly have
been less attractive than on this bleak, damp afternoon in early
November, when the air was moist though no rain had fallen, and a mist
that was too thin to hide more than the smaller details of the landscape
made the distant hills a grey shadow against the lighter grey of the
sky.
There was snow on the mountains, but only on their crowns; only there,
and in the deeper fissures that faced north and so paid no toll to the
sun. The nearer mountains were almost black, like the moor that
stretched its weary length to the sky-line; like the dry walls, that
divided the lower slopes of the moor into curiously-shaped allotments.
The road was little better than a track, but it was just
distinguishable, for which mercy James Inman was thanking the gods as he
strode along. He had not found much to thank them for after leaving the
village of Scaleber, and his acknowledgements were not too cordial.
His one anxiety was to reach the hamlet of Mawm before darkness set in,
and to find there at least warmth and possibly good fortune.
Everything was still; weirdly, painfully so. There must have been birds
in the great crags that rose terrace above terrace from the grey-green
grass and lost themselves in the low-lying clouds; but they had shown no
sign of life. The lonely farm he passed might have been deserted, for no
sound came from it—not even the inquiring bark of a dog. The moor
bird’s cry is not agreeable, but the man would have welcomed anything
that cut the silence. A howling wilderness was better than a wilderness
of death.
He had climbed six hundred feet or more in an hour, and the exertion had
put no strain on either heart or lungs. He was in excellent physical
condition, and, though perhaps a little too lean to be perfectly
proportioned, a fine athletic-looking man. His dress was superior to
that of a labourer or even a journeyman, but it was ill-fitting as if
bought ready-made for the emergency of a funeral, and it was entirely
black. He carried neither stick nor baggage and was without overcoat. A
bowler hat shabbier than the rest of his outer clothing, was worn low
down on his head and almost concealed his hair. The face was expressive
of determination and self-confidence and these qualities made it
striking; but one would have needed to scan the features a second time
or a third before pronouncing the man even passably good-looking. He
trod firmly; yet despite his unwillingness to company with darkness on
that grim waste he was not forcing the pace. Three miles an hour on such
a rough upland road was enough and more than enough.
When the track became a mere stretch of grass the man paused. He was in
the shadow of two high mountains whose summits were barely two hundred
and fifty feet above his head. Night lurked already in the dark gullies,
and he cursed the folly that had led him to risk the shorter bridle
route when a third-rate road had been available, and nothing saved but a
mile or two of foot-drill at the most.
With a shrug of the shoulders he went forward again; but another
quarter-hour brought him to the apex of the path and the mountains ran
out on to the moor. It was downhill now and he plodded on, sometimes
half uncertain of his way, until the descent became abrupt, when he
narrowed his eyelids and sought for signs of the village which he knew
must lie some five hundred feet below. He failed to find them, however,
for in the murk of advancing night it was difficult to discern grey
houses against grey hillsides, and what was worse he lost the path, and
was some time in finding it again.
At length he struck the road and saw the glimmer of lights in the
valley.
“That’ll be Mawm,” he muttered. “The longest way round ’ud have been the
shortest way home. Now which end of the village has this old
hammer-slinger his shop, I wonder?”
The location could have been of little consequence, for the houses were
few in number and straggled to no great distance. Fortune, however, had
placed Baldwin Briggs’ woodyard at the extreme northerly end of the
village, so that Inman stumbled upon it without the necessity of seeking
information, being also guided by the sound of voices in altercation.
A low wall bounded the road on which the front of the two-storied shop
abutted and several men of advanced years were leaning against it and
giving silent audience to the disputants at the door. To these the
stranger joined himself.
“You’ve changed, Mr. Briggs,” a man about Inman’s own age was saying in
an emphatic but not loud voice; “I’ve heard father say ’at when you and
him worked for Mr. Clegg there was nobody readier than you to ask for
your wages raising. Oft and oft I’ve heard him say it, and ’at you egged
the others on to stand by you. Now it’s like skinning the flint to get
another penny out of you, for all you’re putting your own prices up
every few months. You’ve changed, I say.”
The voice fell away and became almost plaintive and the stranger’s lip
curled contemptuously.
Mr. Briggs’ hands were lost in his pockets, and his whole attitude (for
in the dim light his features were scarcely visible) betokened
indifference. When he spoke his voice was charged with contempt, and his
sneering tone brought an approving smile to the newcomer’s face.
“Nay, I’ve none changed, Jagger; not I. I was for my-sen then and I’m
for my-sen now.”
“And that’s God’s truth,” replied the other bitterly. “And your heart’s
like your own grunstone too. I’m hanged if I’d stay with you if my hands
weren’t tied, but needs must when the devil drives, and father’s too old
to shift.”
“_My_ hands aren’t tied,” the other replied with a sudden fierce passion
that electrified the atmosphere and startled the stranger. The voice
became a hiss, and the man’s face was bent forward until his cap almost
touched the other’s forehead. A string of curses followed which, so far
from relieving the pressure, seemed only to accentuate the master’s
wrath.
“_My_ hands aren’t tied,” he repeated, “and I’ll just manage without
your help, Jagger Drake. I’m stalled of your long tongue and your
milksop ways; and to be shut of you at t’ cost of a week’s wages’ll be a
cheap bargain, so you can take yourself off to where they’ll do better
for you. Here——:”
He pulled out a purse, and having carefully counted sundry silver coins
offered them to the young man who mechanically stretched out his hand to
receive them. When they were in his palm the fingers did not close over
them, nor did the hand drop.
“I’m sacked, then?” he asked in a low, uncomprehending voice.
“You’re sacked,” the other answered hotly. “Do you think I’m forced to
stand here to be jawed at; let alone ’at you rob me out o’ good money,
nearhand as oft as you do a job for me?”
“Rob you?”
“Aye, rob me! What else is it but robbery when you spend half as long
again over a job as any other man? I haven’t forgot that there bit o’
work at Lane End, and the lip you gave me.”
The man’s temper was still warm; but at the mention of Lane End the
other recovered himself. He lowered his hand and thrust the coins
uncounted into his trousers’ pocket, and the stunned look left his face.
“If I’ve to choose between robbing widows and robbing you, Baldwin
Briggs,” he said, “I’ll none need to think twice. And widow or no widow,
honest folks don’t scamp their work; and I’ve been brought up in t’
wrong school for tricks o’ that sort. So if that’s your last word I’ll
get my bass and make my way home.”
He turned as he spoke and Mr. Briggs said nothing, but spat angrily
after the retreating figure. Not one of the elderly men had uttered a
word or moved a hand during the colloquy, and they remained motionless
when the stranger crossed the road and going up to the master-carpenter
laid a hand on his arm.
“Are you filling this chap’s place?” he asked.
Mr. Briggs turned with an angry gesture, but at sight of the stranger he
controlled his features and took stock of the situation whilst staring
into the newcomer’s face. He was naturally cautious, and his brain
worked slowly. Some instinct told him that the man was a carpenter,
probably skilled at his trade—“a likely lad” as he put it in his
thoughts.
On the other hand Jagger Drake was a good worker and a steady,—some of
his customers would have no other—with no fault worth speaking of but a
ridiculous conscientiousness; and the episode which had just ended had
been more than half “play-acting” designed to bring the lad to his
senses and show him on what dangerous ground he was standing.
Inman bided his time but never moved his eyes from the other’s face, and
in the steely concentrated gaze there was a suggestion of hypnotic
power. Interpreting the master’s hesitation as a sign of wavering he
went on in a firm but studiously respectful voice:
“I’ll do a job whilst yon chap’s planning it out. I’ll do in five
minutes what’ll take him twenty, and do it right too. Yon chap’s too
slow to go to his own funeral.”
“Where d’you come from?” Mr. Briggs growled.
“From Scaleber,” he said, offering the tag end of truth. “My name’s
James Inman and luck sent me here—your luck and mine. I came to seek a
job with you, and when I heard you sack yon ninny I knew I’d come in the
nick of time.”
“Oh, did you?” replied Mr. Briggs sharply. “It takes two to make a
bargain, young fellow, and I wouldn’t be too sure o’ that. Trade’s slack
just now and I’m thinking I can do without another man for a week or two
till it mends. I’ll sleep on it, anyway.”
Inman saw the mouth tighten and read the sign. He had already recognised
and regretted his blunder and was feeling round for another starting
point when Jagger re-appeared from the shed at the back with his “bass”
over his shoulder, and without even looking in their direction walked
smartly down the road.
A red flush tinged the sallow features of the master and again Inman
read the sign.
“Ought to work for a woman, he did,” he observed with a sneer; “man
milliner, or something o’ that sort.”
Mr. Briggs’ expression was ugly. “Come inside,” he said.
Inman’s eyes swept the workshop with a swift, comprehensive glance.
“American machines,” he said to himself; “old Hotspur isn’t altogether a
Rip Van Winkle.”
The office was upstairs and the master led the way there. An oil lamp
was burning on a table and by its light Mr. Briggs scanned the
newcomer’s face.
“You’re a joiner by trade?” he inquired.
The other nodded. “I’ve papers, if you care to see them,” he said; and
tossed a packet on to the desk against which the master was leaning.
“What makes you come here if you’re such a dab hand as all that?” he
asked suspiciously when he had read one or two of the documents. “Been a
bit of a rolling stone, haven’t you?”
“I’m moorland born,” Inman replied, “and town life doesn’t suit me. Now
I’m getting older I sort o’ want to settle down.”
Mr. Briggs scowled. He did not like glibness, and the young man was an
adept in that smooth art. All strangers were under suspicion, and a
stranger who turned up from nowhere in time to step into another man’s
shoes—a stranger who travelled so light that he had not even a spare
collar for his neck, and whose tone was domineering although under
control, was doubly suspicious. Mr. Briggs stared steadily and
thoughtfully at his visitor, and frowned until his eyes were almost
hidden by the pepper-coloured tufts of hair that overhung them. Inman
bore the scrutiny well and made his face expressionless.
“It’s a rum tale,” said the master, “and as for getting older you’ll not
have topped twenty-six, I’ll warrant.”
“Barely,” replied the other. “I was six and twenty three weeks since.
Now come, Mr. Briggs, I’m just the man for you. I can handle tools, as
these papers tell you, and you’re wanting a man to handle ’em. I’ll
fetch my bass across to-morrow and start on Monday. You shall give me
what you gave yon other chap, and if I don’t satisfy you, you can sack
me, same as you did him.”
He would have said more, but the change that came over the master’s face
caused him to pull up abruptly. Mr. Briggs was a loosely-built,
shambling man of sixty, with long legs that would not have passed the
test of his own straight-edge, a neck of many hollows, and a face that
was chiefly remarkable for the prominence of the cheek-bones and a
peculiarly knobbed nose. Hair of the same pepper-coloured variety that
thatched his eyebrows grew thickly on his cheeks and chin, but was
shaved from the upper lip. In revenge, perhaps, for that slight, some
seeds had rooted themselves on the end of the nose and flourished there.
In spite of this abnormality there was nothing repulsive about Baldwin
Briggs’ features except when one of those sudden gusts of passion swept
over them and distorted them. Then a row of large, discoloured teeth,
with sundry gaps of irregular shape, was disclosed, and the
pepper-coloured hair on the nose actually bristled. It was a disturbance
of this kind that checked the easy flow of Inman’s speech.
He stood unmoved until the spluttered oaths had run out, but was
inwardly surprised at the quick, volcanic outburst, and contemptuously
amused. Not a sign of this, however, was revealed by his expression.
“Devil take you, with your ‘shalls’ and your ‘cans’,” hissed Mr. Briggs.
“When I want a boss I’ll let you know. You’re a piece too clever, young
fellow, for a plain man like me. You’re a cock ’at crows over loud and
’ud want all t’ yard to yourself. Here!” he tossed the envelope back to
Inman, who caught it and thrust it into his pocket; then, as he turned
down the lamp, he remarked gruffly:
“I’ll bid you good-night. There’s nothing here for you, young man.”
Inman allowed his eyes to drop and spoke softly.
“I’m sorry, sir,” he said, “I’ve been used to town ways, and my tongue
was a bit free, maybe. I meant no harm, and as for being boss, that’s a
cap that doesn’t fit my head. If you care to try me I’ll serve you well,
and you’ll get no ‘lip’ from me.”
The allusion was craftily designed to bring the master back to
realities, but the tone was not aggressive, and Mr. Briggs’ features
unbent.
“I let no man tell me what I ‘shall’ give him,” he growled. “That’s for
me to say. You’re not in t’ town here bear in mind, with a union to
stand aside you with a stick. I give a man what he’s worth to me, and if
he doesn’t like it, he chucks it, or I chuck him.”
“Quite so,” Inman assented. “That’ll do for me.”
“You’re more ready to toe t’ line than I altogether care about,” the
other went on. He was still suspicious, and whilst the mastery in the
grey eyes fascinated it also irritated him.
“I want a job in the country,” Inman said soothingly. “I want to be
among men o’ my own breed—among moormen. I’m sick to death of the
little painted images of men they have in the towns. They told me in
Scaleber you were a just man, Mr. Briggs—not soft, but just—and I’ll
trust you to give me what I’m worth—that’s all I meant, however badly I
put it.”
The master threw a keen glance at him, and seeing nothing but frankness
and something not unlike humility in the face and attitude, allowed
himself to be appeased.
“Well, I’ll try you for an odd week,” he said, “and see what you’re made
of. I could like to teach yon lad a lesson. He’ll be back in t’ morning,
like enough, with his cap in his hands; but I’ll see him blaze before
I’ll stand his jaw. Where’ll you put up for to-night?”
“I’ll find a spot somewhere,” Inman replied indifferently.
“Will you step in and have a bite o’ bread before you go down t’
village?” Mr. Briggs inquired gruffly, and with no heartiness to season
the invitation. “My sister’ll happen know o’ somebody ’at’ll give you a
bed.”
A light came into the man’s eyes for a second or two, but he quickly
curtained it.
“No thanks,” he said. “I’ll not trouble you. There’ll be an inn, I
reckon. I’ll go down there.”