His entrance interrupted the conversation for a few seconds only, and when he had ordered and been served with a pot of ale, he rested his chin on his hands and set himself to pick up the threads. It was quite evident that the incident in which he had taken part had been under discussion for some time, and he was quick to realise that his action, the ultimate result of which was not known, had aroused some measure of resentment. The knowledge amused without embarrassing him; but he masked his features as carefully as he had done in the master’s office. “A trew word, as Jagger tell’d him,” said an elderly man whose beard bore wintry evidences of a former fiery splendour. “I mind when he wor nowt but a wisp of a lad and laiked taws[1] wi’ t’ rest on us he wor a rare trader; and there worn’t many he didn’t diddle out o’ all their glass uns. Allus for his-sen, wor Baldwin, and t’ owder he gets t’ worse he becomes.” “It’s t’ way o’ t’ world, Swith’n,” a spare, undersized man of advanced age observed in a thin, leaking voice that whistled at every sibilant. “I made a verse of it when I wor a young man i’ my prime. I can’t think o’ things same as I use to could. When I try to call ’em up it’s same as they start a-dancin’ a polka, and I can’t pick out one from t’other. I know ‘pelf’ came at t’ end o’ one line and ‘self’ at t’other. It wor a good rhyme, and t’ plain meanin’ of it wor ’at it’s i’ t’ way o’ Natur’ for a man to look after his-sen. I had a gift i’ them days for puttin’ my thoughts into verse.” “And uncommon well you did it, Ambrus; that’s a fact,” admitted Swithin, whilst two or three others grunted approval. “Common metre, short metre, six-lines-eights and sometimes a peculiar metre,” said the old man with manifest gratification; “it wor all one to me when I wor i’ that gifted mood. My mother traced it back to her gran’father ’at ’ad been a fearful good hand at a bass fiddle i’ t’ Gurt Revival, and could play any tune o’ Wesley’s in his cups.” “Aye, there’s been gifts wasted i’ your family, Ambrus; there’s no getting over that,” said Swithin with a solemn headshake, “but none o’ your lot has had t’ gift o’ making brass. Contraireywise, brass pours in to Baldwin same as watter to t’ Cove.” “But it doesn’t pour out i’ t’ same way,” laughed a younger man. “T’ Cove passes it on to watter t’ land, Swithin. Baldwin hugs it to his-sen.” “Not so fast, lad,” replied Swithin; “tha wants to make sure ’at that egg tha’s laid isn’t a pot ’un before tha clucks so loud. Has tha never heard tell ’at there’s tremendious deep pits behind t’ Cove ’at’s got to be filled wi’ t’ watter from t’ Tarn before any creeps out into t’ river bed? It serves it-sen, does t’ beck, before it spares owt for anybody else; and all t’ land gets is t’ overflow. Same way wi’ Baldwin.” He glanced round the company and reading approval in Inman’s eyes allowed his own to suggest what would have been a wink in a more jocund man.