BEING

Another Supplement to “Joe and the Geologist.”1

BY JOE HIS-SEL’.

HAT 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’ Wurki’ton, noo’s an’ than’s; an’ sum gentlemen theear, they tak’ him inta t’ Globe or t’ Green Draggin, an’ just 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 lal 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 gurse ga’n gezlin he wad niver ha’ browte oot sec a lafter o’ lees as he’s gitten yan o’ them Wurki’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 just as if I’d tel’t them me-sel’. I’s nut 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 wurry fadder when his time cums, 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 nut a likely fellow to be freeten’t for what I’d done. But ther’s m’appen sum ’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 dud ga 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 ya 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 hur side o’ t’ harth; she hedn’t oppen’t her mooth sen fadder co’ heÀm,—nay, she hedn’t sa much as leuk’t at him efter t’ ya hard glowre ’at she gev him at t’ furst; 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 sum 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 cu’s heÀm leÀt an’ stackery; but I wasn’t sworry to see him git a lal snape, he’s sae ruddy 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 wurd, whedder he meen’t it or nut, 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 lal jacket like a lass’s bedgoon, sed he wad see. He com back laughin’, an’ said, “Cum 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 ga’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 gurnin 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 cud put oot my hand or say a civil wurd tull him, he glentit up at mÉ throo his specks, iv his oan oald sideways fashion—but varra feÙrce-like—an’ gruntit oot sum’at aboot wunderin’ hoo I dar’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 fund 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 brust.

“Show my feÀce!” says I, “an’ what sÙd I show than?” says I. “If it cums 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 mun know, I’s cum’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 dud owte we need sham on whoariver we show’t oor feÀces. Dar’ 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 sud 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’ up at mÉ, wid a hoaf smurk 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 nar oot o’ winnd, an’ I begon rayder to think sham 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 cud, an’ I said, “Hev yÉ gitten owte agean 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 durty 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 nut 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’ suerlye 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 gan 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 udder 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 fund 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 jumpt up an’ said I mud hev sum’at to drink. Thinks I to me-sel’, “Cum! we’re gittin’ back to oor oan menseful way ageÀn at t’ lang last, but I willn’t stur 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 dud 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 gurse. As I pick’t them up, yan by yan, and handit them to t’ oald jolly jist, it dud my heart gud to see hoo pleas’t he leÙkt, as he wipet them on his cwoat cuff, 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’ furst thing he dud 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 leukt 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 munny an’ finndin’ sum 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!”