“How are you, old chap?” said George, nodding to him—“Thought he looked like an old grandfather of mine,” he said to me, laughing, as he pumped up the tyres of the old bicycle for me. It was Saturday night, so the bar parlour of the Ram Inn was fairly full. “Hello, George—come co’tin’?” was the cry, followed by a nod and a “Good evenin’,” to me, who was a stranger in the parlour. “It’s raïght for thaïgh,” said a fat young fellow with an unwilling white mustache, “—tha can co’te as much as ter likes ter ’ae, as well as th’ lass, an’ it costs thee nöwt——” at which the room laughed, taking pipes from mouths to do so. George sat down, looking round. “’Owd on a bit,” said a black-whiskered man, “tha mun ’a ’e patience when to ’t co’tin’ a lass. Ow’s puttin’ th’ owd lady ter bed—’ark thee—can t’ ear—that wor th’ bed latts goin’ bang. Ow’ll be dern in a minnit now, gie ’er time ter tuck th’ owd lady up. Can’ ter ’ear ’er say ’er prayers.” “Strike!” cried the fat young man, exploding: “Fancy th’ owd lady sayin’ ’er prayers!—it ’ud be enough ter ma’e ’er false teeth drop out.” The room laughed. They began to tell tales about the old landlady. She had practised bone-setting, in which she was very skilful. People came to her from long distances that she might divine their trouble and make right their limbs. She would accept no fee. Once she had gone up to Dr. Fullwood to give him a piece of her mind, inasmuch as he had let a child go for three weeks with a broken collar-bone, whilst treating him for dislocation. The doctor had tried the high hand with her, since when, wherever he went the miners placed their hands on their shoulders, and groaned: ‘Oh my collar-bone!’ Here Meg came in. She gave a bright, quick, bird like look at George, and flushed a brighter red. “I thought you wasn’t cummin,” she said. “Dunna thee bother—’e’d none stop away,” said the black-whiskered man.