“I bean’t so fond myself of men as is so mortal sprack and fussy in a strange place,” the miller observed to Mrs. Lake in reference to this matter. Mrs. Lake had picked up several of her husband’s bits of proverbial wisdom, which she often flattered him by retailing to his face. “Too hot to hold, mostly,” was her reply, in knowing tones. “Ay, ay, missus, so a be,” said the windmiller. And after a while he added, “Gearge is slow, sartinly, mortal slow; but Gearge is sure.” CHAPTER V. THE POCKET-BOOK AND THE FAMILY BIBLE.—FIVE POUNDS’ REWARD. OF the strange gentleman who brought Jan to the windmill, the Lakes heard no more, but the money was paid regularly through a lawyer in London. From this lawyer, indeed, Master Lake had heard immediately after the arrival of his foster-son. The man of business wrote to say that the gentleman who had visited the mill on a certain night had, at that date, lost a pocket-book, which he thought might have been picked up at the mill. It contained papers only valuable to the owner, and also a five-pound note, which was liberally offered to the windmiller if he could find the book, and forward it at once. Master Lake began to have a kind of reckless, gambling sort of feeling about luck. Here would be an easily earned five pounds, if he could but have the luck to find the missing property! That ten shillings a week had come pretty easily to him. When all is said, there _are_ people into whose mouths the larks fall ready cooked! The windmiller looked inside the mill and outside the mill, and wandered a long way along the chalky road with his eyes downwards, but he was no nearer to the five-pound note for his pains. Then he went to his wife, but she had seen nothing of the pocket-book; on which her husband somewhat unreasonably observed that, “A might a been zartin _thee_ couldn’t help un!” He next betook himself to George, who was slowly, and it is to be hoped surely, sweeping out the round-house. “Gearge, my boy,” said the windmiller, in not too anxious tones, “have ’ee seen a pocket-book lying about anywheres?” George leaned upon his broom with one hand, and with the other scratched his white head. “What be a pocket-book, then, Master Lake?” said he, grinning, as if at his own ignorance. “Thee’s eerd of a pocket-book before now, thee vool, sure-ly!” said the impatient windmiller. “I’se eerd of a pocket of hops, Master Lake,” said George, after an irritating pause, during which he still smiled, and scratched his poll as if to stimulate recollection. “Book—book—book! pocket-_book_!” shouted the miller. “If thee can’t read, thee knows what a book is, thee gawney!”