Mr. Barholm had fallen into the habit of turning to Anice for it, when
he required information concerning people and things. In her desultory
pilgrimages, Anice saw all that he missed, and heard much that he was
deaf to. The rough, hard-faced men and boisterous girls who passed to
and from their work at the mine, drew her to the window whenever they
made their appearance. She longed to know something definite of them--to
get a little nearer to their unprepossessing life. Sometimes the men and
women, passing, caught glimpses of her, and, asking each other who she
was, decided upon her relationship to the family.
“Hoo's th' owd parson's lass,” somebody said. “Hoo's noan so bad lookin'
neyther, if hoo was na sich a bit o' a thing.”
The people who had regarded Mr. Barholm with a spice of disfavor, still
could not look with ill-nature upon this pretty girl. The slatternly
women nudged each other as she passed, and the playing children stared
after their usual fashion; but even the hardest-natured matron could
find nothing more condemnatory to say than, “Hoo's noan Lancashire,
that's plain as th' nose on a body's face;” or, “Theer is na much on
her, at ony rate. Hoo's a bit of a weakly-like lass wi'out much blood i'
her.”
Now and then Anice caught the sound of their words, but she was used
to being commented upon. She had learned that people whose lives have a
great deal of hard, common discomfort and struggle, acquire a tendency
to depreciation almost as a second nature. It is easier to bear one's
own misfortunes, than to bear the good-fortune of better-used people.
That is the insult added by Fate to injury.
Riggan was a crooked, rambling, cross-grained little place. From the one
wide street with its jumble of old, tumble-down shops, and glaring new
ones, branched out narrow, up-hill or down-hill thoroughfares, edged by
colliers' houses, with an occasional tiny provision shop, where
bread and bacon were ranged alongside potatoes and flabby cabbages;
ornithological specimens made of pale sweet cake, and adorned with
startling black currant eyes, rested unsteadily against the window-pane,
a sore temptation to the juvenile populace.
It was in one of these side streets that Anice met with her first
adventure.
Turning the corner, she heard the sharp yelp of a dog among a group
of children, followed almost immediately by a ringing of loud, angry,
boyish voices, a sound of blows and cries, and a violent scuffle. Anice
paused for a few seconds, looking over the heads of the excited little
crowd, and then made her way to it, and in a minute was in the heart
of it. The two boys who were the principal figures, were fighting
frantically, scuffling, kicking, biting, and laying on vigorous blows,
with not unscientific fists. Now and then a fierce, red, boyish face was
to be seen, and then the rough head ducked and the fight waxed fiercer
and hotter, while the dog--a small, shrewd sharp-nosed terrier--barked
at the combatants' heels, snapping at one pair, but not at the other,
and plainly enjoying the excitement.
“Boys!” cried Anice. “What's the matter?”
“They're feighten,” remarked a philosophical young by-stander, with
placid interest,--“an' Jud Bates'll win.”
It was so astonishing a thing that any outsider should think of
interfering, and there was something so decided in the girlish voice
addressing them, that almost at the moment the combatants fell back,
panting heavily, breathing vengeance in true boy fashion, and evidently
resenting the unexpected intrusion.
“What is it all about?” demanded the girl. “Tell me.”
The crowd gathered close around her to stare, the terrier sat down
breathless, his red tongue hanging out, his tail beating the ground. One
of the boys was his master, it was plain at a glance, and, as a natural
consequence, the dog had felt it his duty to assist to the full extent
of his powers. But the other boy was the first to speak.
“Why could na he let me a-be then?” he asked irately. “I was na doin'
owt t' him.”
“Yea, tha was,” retorted his opponent, a sturdy, ragged, ten-year-old.
“Nay, I was na.”
“Yea, tha was.”
“Well,” said Anice, “what _was_ he doing?”
“Aye,” cried the first youngster, “tha tell her if tha con. Who hit th'
first punse?” excitedly doubling his fist again. “I didna.”
“Nay, tha didna, but tha did summat else. Tha punsed at Nib wi' thy
clog, an' hit him aside o' th' yed, an' then I punsed thee, an' I'd do
it agen fur--”
“Wait a minute,” said Anice, holding up her little gloved hand. “Who is
Nib?”
“Nib's my dog,” surlily. “An' them as punses him, has getten to punse
me.”
Anice bent down and patted the small animal.
“He seems a very nice dog,” she said. “What did you kick him for?”
Nib's master was somewhat mollified. A person who could appreciate the
virtues of “th' best tarrier i' Riggan,” could not be regarded wholly
with contempt, or even indifference.
“He kicked him fur nowt,” he answered. “He's allus at uther him or me.
He bust my kite, an' he cribbed my marvels, didn't he?” appealing to the
by-standers.
“Aye, he did. I seed him crib th' marvels mysen. He wur mad 'cos Jud
wur winnen, and then he kicked Nib.”
Jud bent down to pat Nib himself, not without a touch of pride in his
manifold injuries, and the readiness with which they were attested.
“Aye,” he said, “an' I did na set on him at first neyther. I nivver set
on him till he punsed Nib. He may bust my kite, an' steal my marvels,
an' he may ca' me ill names, but he shanna kick Nib. So theer!”
It was evident that Nib's enemy was the transgressor. He was grievously
in the minority. Nobody seemed to side with him, and everybody seemed
ready--when once the tongues were loosed--to say a word for Jud and
“th' best tarrier i'Riggan.” For a few minutes Anice could scarcely make
herself heard.
“You are a good boy to take care of your dog,” she said to Jud--“and
though fighting is not a good thing, perhaps if I had been a boy,”
gravely deciding against moral suasion in one rapid glance at the
enemy--“perhaps if I had been a boy, I would have fought myself. _You_
are a coward,” she added, with incisive scorn to the other lad, who
slinked sulkily out of sight.
“Owd Sammy Craddock,” lounging at his window, clay pipe in hand, watched
Anice as she walked away, and gave vent to his feelings in a shrewd
chuckle.
“Eh! eh!” he commented; “so that's th' owd parson's lass, is it? Wall,
hoo may be o' th' same mate, but hoo is na o' th' same grain, I'll
warrant. Hoo's a rare un, hoo is, fur a wench.”
“Owd Sammy's” amused chuckles, and exclamations of “Eh! hoo's a rare
un--that hoo is--fur a wench,” at last drew his wife's attention. The
good woman pounced upon him sharply.
“Tha'rt an owd yommer-head,” she said. “What art tha ramblin' about now?
Who is it as is siccan a rare un?”
Owd Sammy burst into a fresh chuckle, rubbing his knees with both hands.
“Why,” said he, “I'll warrant tha could na guess i' tha tried, but I'll
gi'e thee a try. Who dost tha think wur out i' th' street just now i'
th' thick of a foight among th' lads? I know thou'st nivver guess.”
“Nay, happen I canna, an' I dunnot know as I care so much, neyther,”
testily.
“Why,” slapping his knee, “th' owd parson's lass. A little wench not
much higher nor thy waist, an' wi' a bit o' a face loike skim-milk, but
steady and full o' pluck as an owd un.”
“Nay now, tha dost na say so? What wor she doin' an' how did she come
theer? Tha mun ha' been dreamin'!”
“Nowt o' th' soart. I seed her as plain as I see thee an' heerd ivvery
word she said. Tha shouldst ha' seen her! Hoo med as if hoo'd lived
wi' lads aw her days. Jud Bates and that young marplot o' Thorme's wur
feightin about Nib--at it tooth and nail--an' th' lass sees 'em, an'
marches into th' thick, an' sets 'em to reets. Yo' should ha' seen her!
An' hoo tells Jud as he's a good lad to tak' care o' his dog, an' hoo
does na know but what hoo'd fowt hersen i' his place, an' hoo ca's Jack
Thorme a coward, an' turns her back on him, an' ends up wi' tellin' Jud
to bring th' tarrier to th' Rectory to see her.”
“Well,” exclaimed Mrs. Craddock, “did yo' iwer hear th' loike!”
“I wish th' owd parson had seed her,” chuckled her spouse irreverently.
“That soart is na i' his loine. He'd a waved his stick as if he'd been
king and council i' one, an' rated 'em fro' th' top round o' th' ladder.
He canna get down fro' his perch. Th' owd lad'll stick theer till he
gets a bit too heavy, an' then he'll coom down wi' a crash, ladder an'
aw'--but th' lass is a different mak'.”
Sammy being an oracle among his associates, new-comers usually passed
through his hands, and were condemned, or approved, by him. His
pipe, and his criticisms upon society in general, provided him with
occupation. Too old to fight and work, he was too shrewd to be ignored.
Where he could not make himself felt, he could make himself heard.
Accordingly, when he condescended to inform a select and confidential
audience that the “owd parson's lass was a rare un, lass as she
was”--(the masculine opinion of Riggan on the subject of the weaker
sex was a rather disparaging one)--the chances of the Rector's daughter
began, so to speak, to “look up.” If Sammy Craddock found virtue in
the new-comer, it was possible such virtue might exist, at least in
a negative form,--and open enmity was rendered unnecessary, and even
impolitic. A faint interest began to be awakened. When Anice passed
through the streets, the slatternly, baby-laden women looked at her
curiously, and in a manner not absolutely unfriendly. She might not be
so bad after all, if she did have “Lunnon ways,” and was smiled upon by
Fortune. At any rate, she differed from the parson himself, which was in
her favor.