That Tommy Towman’s a meàst serious leear—an’, like o’ leears, he’s
a desper’t feùl. By jing! if I hed a dog hoaf as daft I wad hang’t,
that wad I! He gits doon aboot Cockerm’uth an’ Wūrki’ton, noo’s an’
than’s; an’ sūm gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’
Green Draggin, an’ jūst for nowte at o’ else but acoase they think he
kens me, they feed him wid drink an’ they hod him i’ toak till he can
hardly tell whedder end on him’s upbank; an’ than they dro’ him on to
tell them o’ mak’s o’ teàls—o’ mak’s but true an’s—aboot me; an’ t’
pooar lāl gowk hesn’t gumption aneuf to see ’at they’re no’but makin’
ghem on him. But, loavin’ surs! if he’d hed t’ sense of a gūrse gā’n
gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten
yan o’ them Wūrki’ton gentlemen (yan ’at ken’s weel hoo to write doon
oor heàmly toke) to put inta prent; an’ what mak’s yan madder nor o’ t’
rest,—to put them i’ prent jūst as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nūt
t’ chap to try to cum ower an oald jolly jist wid whinin’ oot “Fadder’s
deid!” when ivery body kens ’at fadder’s whicker nor meàst on us. My
sarty! he’s nin o’ t’ deein’ mak’ isn’t fadder. Wes’ hev to wūrry
fadder when his time cūms, for he’ll niver dee of his-sel’ sa lang as
ther’s any wark to hoond yan on tull. An’ I needn’t tell any body ’at
knows _me_, ’at I was niver t’ chap to tak’ in owder a jolly jist or
any udder feùl; an’ if I was, I’s nūt a likely fellow to be freeten’t
for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sūm ’at doesn’t; an’ mebbee
ther’s a lock ’at doesn’t know what a leear Tommy Towman is, an’ sooa,
bee t’ way o’ settin’ me-sel’ reet wid beath maks, I’ll tell yé what
_dūd_ gā forret ’atween me an’ t’ jolly jist t’ seckint time he com tul
Skeàl-hill.
I said afooar ’at I’d niver seen mair o’ t’ oald jolly jist, an’ when I
said that, I hedn’t; but yā donky neet last summer fadder hed been doon
Lorton way, an’ ’t was gaily leàt when he gat heàm. As he was sittin’
iv his oàn side o’ t’ fire, tryin’ to lowse t’ buttons of his spats, he
says to me, “Joe,” says he, “I co’t at Skeàl-hill i’ my rwoad heàm.”
Mudder was sittin’ knittin’ varra fast at hūr side o’ t’ hārth; she
hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heàm,—nay, she hedn’t sa mūch
as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ fūrst;
but when he said he’d been at Skeàl-hill, she gev a grunt, an’ said,
as if she spak till nèabody but hur-sel’, “Ey! a blinnd body med see
that.” “I was speakin’ till Joe,” says fadder. “Joe,” says he, “I was
at Skeàl-hill”—anudder grunt—“an’ they tel’t me ’at thy oald frind t’
jolly jist’s back ageàn—I think thu’d better slip doon an’ see if he
wants to buy any mair brocken steàns; oald Aberram has a fine heap or
two liggin aside Kirgat. An’, noo, ’at I’ve gitten them spats off, I’s
away to my bed.” Mudder tok a partin’ shot at him as he stacker’t off.
She said, “It wad be as weel for sūm on us if yé wad bide theear, if yé
mean to carry on i’ t’ way ye’re shappin’!” Noo, this was hardly fair
o’ mudder, for it’s no’but yance iv a way ’at fadder cū’s heàm leàt
an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lāl snape, he’s sae
rūddy wid his snapes his-sel’. I ken’t weel aneuf he was no’but mackin’
ghem o’ me aboot gittin’ mair brass oot o’ t’ oald jolly jist, but I
thowte to me-sel’, thinks I, I’ve deun many a dafter thing nor tak’ him
at his wūrd, whedder he meen’t it or nūt, an’ sooa thowte, sooa deùn;
for neist mwornin’ I woak’t me-sel’ off tull Skeàl-hill.
When I gat theear, an’ as’t if t’ jolly jist was sturrin’, they yan
snùrtit an’ anudder gurn’t, till I gat rayder maddish; but at last yan
o’ them skipjacks o’ fellows ’at ye see weearin’ a lāl jacket like a
lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cūm
this way, Joe.” Well, I follow’t him till he stopp’t at a room dooar,
an’ he gev a lal knock, an’ than oppen’t it, an’ says, “Joe, sur,” says
he. I wasn’t gā’n to stand that, ye know, an’ says I, “Joe, sur,” says
I, “he’ll ken it’s Joe, sur,” says I, “as seùn as he sees t’ feàce o’
me;” says I, “an’ if thoo doesn’t git oot o’ that wid thy ‘Joe, sur,’”
says I, “I’ll fetch the’ a clink under t’ lug ’at ’ll mak’ the’ laugh
at t’ wrang side o’ that ugly mug o’ thine, thoo gūrnin yap, thoo!”
Wid that he skipt oot o’ t’ way gaily sharp, an’ I stept whietly into
t’ room. Theear he was, sittin at a teàble writin—t’ grey hair, t’
specks, t’ lang nwose, t’ white hankecher, an’ t’ black cleàs, o’ just
as if he’d niver owder doff’t his-sel’ or donn’t his-sel’ sen he went
away. But afooar I cūd put oot my hand or say a civil wūrd tull him, he
glentit up at mé throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but
varra feùrce-like—an’ grūntit oot sum’at aboot wūnderin’ hoo I dār’t to
shew my feàce theear. Well! this pot t’ cap on t’ top of o’. I’d chow’t
ower what fadder said, an’ _hoo_ he’d said it i’ my rwoad doon, till I
fūnd me-sel’ gittin rayder mad aboot that. T’ way ’at they snurtit an’
laugh’t when I com to Skeàl-hill meàd me madder; an’ t’ bedgoon cwoatit
fellow wid his “Joe, sur,” meàd me madder nor iver; but t’ oald jolly
jist, ’at I thowte wad be sa fain to see mé agean, if t’ hed no’but
been for t’ seàk of oor sprogue on t’ fells togidder—wùnderin’ ’at I
dar’t show my feàce theear, fairly dreàv me _rantin’_ mad, an’ I _düd_
mak a brūst.
“Show my feàce!” says I, “an’ what sùd I show than?” says I. “If it
cūms to showin’ feàces, I’ve a better feàce to show nor iver belang’t
to yan o’ your breed,” says I, “if t’ rest on them’s owte like t’
sample they’ve sent us; but if yé mūn know, I’s cūm’t of a stock ’at
niver wad be freetn’t to show a feàce till a king, let aleàn an oald
newdles wid a creùkt nwose, ’at co’s his-sel’ a jolly jist: an’ I defy
t’ feàce o’ clay,” says I, “to say ’at any on us iver dūd owte we need
shām on whoariver we show’t oor feàces. Dār’ to show my feàce, eh?”
says I, “my song! but this is a bonnie welcome to give a fellow ’at’s
cum’t sa far to see yé i’ seckan a mwornin!” I said a gay deal mair
o’ t’ seàm mak’, an’ o’ t’ while I was sayin’ on’t—or, I sūd say, o’ t’
while I was shootin’ on’t, for I dudn’t spar’ t’ noise—t’ oald divel
laid his-sel’ back iv his girt chair, an’ keept twiddlin’ his thooms
an’ glimin’ ūp at mé, wid a hoaf smūrk iv his feàce, as if he’d gitten
sum’at funny afooar him. Efter a while I stopt, for I’d ron me-sel’
varra nār oot o’ winnd, an’ I begon rayder to think shām o’ shootin’
an’ bellerin’ sooa at an oald man, an’ him as whisht as a troot throo
it o’; an’ when I’d poo’t in, he just said as whietly as iver, ’at I
was a natteral cur’osity. I dùdn’t ken weel what this meen’t, but I
thowte it was soace, an’ it hed like to set mé off ageàn, but I beàtt
it doon as weel as I cūd, an’ I said, “Hev yé gitten owte ageān mé?”
says I. “If yé hev, speak it oot like a man, an’ divn’t sit theear
twiddlin yer silly oald thooms an’ coa’in fwoke oot o’ ther neàms i’
that rwoad!” Than it o’ com oot plain aneuf. O’ this illnater was just
acoase I hedn’t brong him t’ steàns ’at he’d gedder’t on t’ fells that
het day, an’ he said ’at changin’ on them was ayder a varra dūrty trick
or a varra clumsy jwoke. “Trick!” says I. “Jwoke! dud yé say? It was
rayder past a jwoke to expect me to carry a leàd o’ brocken steàns
o’ t’ way here, when ther’ was plenty at t’ spot. I’s nūt sec a feùl as
ye’ve teàn me for.” He tok off his specks, an’ he glower’t at mé adoot
them; an’ than he pot them on ageàn, an’ glower’t at mé wid them; an’
than he laugh’t an’ ax’t mé if I thowte ther’ cud be nèa difference i’
steàns. “Whey,” says I, “ye’ll hardly hev t’ feàce to tell me ’at ya
bag o’ steàns isn’t as gud as anudder bag o’ steàns—an’ suer_lye_ to
man, ye’ll niver be sa consaitit as to say yé can break steàns better
nor oald Aberram ’at breaks them for his breid, an’ breaks them o’ day
lang, an’ ivery day?” Wid that he laugh’t agean an’ tel’t mé to sit
doon, an’ than ax’t me what I thowte meàd him tak so mickle trùble
laitin’ bits o’ stean on t’ fells if he cud git what he wantit at t’
rwoad side. “Well!” says I, “if I mun tell yé t’ truth, I thowte yé
war rayder nick’t i’ t’ heid; but it meàd nea matter what I thowte sa
lang as yé pait mé sa weel for gān wid yé.” As I said this, it com
into my held ’at it’s better to flaitch a feùl nor to feight wid him;
an’ efter o’, ’at ther’ may’d be sum’at i’ t’ oald man likin steans
of his oan breakin’ better nor ūdder fwoke’s. I remember’t t’ fiddle
’at Dan Fisher meàd, an’ thowte was t’ best fiddle ’at iver squeak’t,
for o’ it meàd ivery body else badly to hear’t; an’ wad bray oald Ben
Wales at his dancing scheùl boal acoase Ben wadn’t play t’ heàm meád
fiddle asteed of his oan. We o’ think meàst o’ what we’ve hed a hand in
oorsel’s—it’s no’but natteral; an’ sooa as o’ this ron throo my heid,
I fūnd me-sel’ gitten rayder sworry for t’ oald man, an’ I says, “What
wad yé gi’ me to git yé o’ yer oan bits o’ steàn back ageàn?” He cockt
up his lugs at this, an’ ax’t mé if his speciments, as he co’t them,
was seàf. “Ey,” says I, “they’re seàf aneùf; nèabody hereaboot ’ill
think a lal lock o’ steans worth meddlin’ on, sa lang as they divn’t
lig i’ the’r rwoad.” Wid that he jūmpt ūp an’ said I mud hev sum’at
to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cūm! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan
menseful way ageàn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stūr a peg till I ken
what I’s to hev for gittin him his rubbish back, I wad niver hear t’
last on’t if I went heàm em’ty handit.” He meád it o’ reet hooiver,
as I was tackin’ my drink; an’ he went up t’ stair an’ brong doon t’
ledder bags I kent sa weel, an’ geh mé them to carry just as if nowte
hed happen’t, an’ off we startit varra like as we dūd afooar.
T’ Skeàl-hill fwoke o’ gedder’t aboo’t dooar to leùk efter us, as if
we’d been a show. We, nowder on us, mindit for that, hooiver, but
stump’t away togidder as thick as inkle weavers till we gat till t’
feùt of oor girt meedow, whoar t’ steans was liggin, aside o’ t’
steel, just as I’d teem’t them oot o’ t’ bags, only rayder grown ower
wid gūrse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald
jolly jist, it dūd my heart gūd to see hoo pleas’t he leùkt, as he
wipet them on his cwoat cūff, an’ wettit them, an’ glower’t at them
throo his specks as if they wer’ sum’at gud to eat, an’ he was varra
hungry—an’ pack’t them away into t’ bags till they wer’ beàth chock
full ageàn.
Well! t’ bargin was, ’at I sud carry them to Skeàl-hill. Sooa back
we pot—t’ jolly jist watchin’ his bags o’ t’ way as if t’ steans was
guineas, an’ I was a thief. When we gat theear, he meàd me’ tak’ them
reet into t’ parlour; an’ t’ fūrst thing he dūd was to co’ for sum reed
wax an’ a leet, an’ clap a greet splatch of a seal on t’ top of ayder
bag; an’ than he leūkt at me, an’ gev a lal grunt of a laugh, an’ a
smartish wag of his heid, as much as to say, “Dee it agean, if thoo
can, Joe!” But efter that he says, “Here, Joe,” says he, “here five
shillin’ for restworin’ my speciments, an’ here anudder five shillin’
for showin’ mé a speciment of human natur’ ’at I didn’t believe in till
to-day.” Wid that, we shak’t hands an’ we partit; an’ I went heàm as
pleas’t as a dog wi’ two tails, jinglin’ my mūnny an’ finndin’ sūm way
as if I was hoaf a jolly jist me-sel’—an’ whoa kens but I was? For when
I gat theear, I says to fadder, “Fadder,” says I, “leùk yé here! If o’
yer jibes turn’t to sec as this, I divn’t mind if ye jibe on till yé’ve
jibed yer-sel’ intul a tip’s whorn;” says I, “but I reckon yé niver
jibed to sec an’ end for yer-sel’ as ye’ve jibed for me this time!”