I had gone into the mistal, where I knew I should find 'Siah. My father it seemed had risen earlier than usual. 'Siah was grooming old Bess, sissing over her flanks with much vigour, and prodding her loins with the comb with many a "stand over, lass," "whoa," "will ta?" and much make-believe that the old mare was a mettlesome beast, full of fire and vice, whereas in sooth a quieter animal never was shod. "Yo're agate early this morning, 'Siah," I said; "what's up?" "Nay that's what caps me, Ben Summut's up, certain sure. Thi father fot me out o' bed awmost afore aw'd shut mi een. 'Tha mum fettle Bess up an' see to th' gears' he said, 'we'st be off for Macclesfilt as soon as we can mak' a load.'" "To Macclesfilt? Why there's no fair on this time o'th year, 'Si. Tha must ha' been dreamin'." "It's a dream at's fetched th' sweat on me, if it were a dream. Aw'm noan gi'en to dreams 'at fetch me out o' bed i' th' middle o' th' neet. But dream or no dream we're off in a day or two, choose how. Tha'll be going too, Ben." "What do yo' make on it, 'Si?" "Why it's plain as th' nose on thi face. We're none bahn to sell pieces, for there's nobody got any brass to wear. An' aw reckon thi father's noan so weel off 'at he can afford to give 'em away. So if it isn't for business it mun be for pleasure or happen for health. P'r'aps it's for thy health, Ben. Tha looks delikit, tha great six feet o' beef an' bacon. A change o' air will do thee good." "Tha knows well enough, 'Si, I cannot go away just now, not before next Saturday. Yo' know what's fixed for next Saturday." "Aw know weel enough, an' more the reason for a change o' air, say I." "What 'Si, turn traitor and leave our comrades in the lurch?" "Hard words break no bones, Ben, an' I, for one, am sick o' this trolloping about hauf th' neet through; often as not weet to th' skin; an' nawther beef nor beer, nor brass nor fun in it. Aw'd rayther list for a sodger gradely. It's wearin' me to skin an' bone, an' all for what aw'd like to know?" "For th' cause 'Si." "Damn th' cause. Let th' cause shift for itsen. Aw'm noan a cropper nor a weaver, nor owt but a plain teamer, an' aw tell yo' Ben, we'd both be a darn sight better out o' this job nor in it." "But our oath, 'Si." "Promises an' pie crusts wer' made to be broken aw'n heerd yo'r mother say." "But our honour, 'Si." "Fine words butter no parsnips, aw'n heard Mary say. Besides honour's for gentlefolk. It's too fine a thing for a teamer. Stand ovver, tha brussen owd wastrel!" "When do we start for Macclesfield?" "Happen. Wednesday, happen Thursday. Not o' Friday if aw can help, for luck. Any road as soon after next market day as we can load, bi what thi father says."