Part 13 (1/2)
chitterin' as 'ow the old chap 'ad been playin' cards wi' the devil, an'
got a bad end. But Miss Tranter, she don't listen to maids'
gabble,--she's doin' well, devil or no devil--an' if any one was to talk to 'er 'bout ghosteses an' sich-like, she'd wallop 'em out of 'er bar with a broom! Ay, that she would! She's a powerful strong woman Miss Tranter, an' many's the larker what's felt 'er 'and on 'is collar a-chuckin' 'im out o' the 'Trusty Man' neck an' crop for sayin'
somethin' what aint ezackly agreeable to 'er feelin's. She don't stand no nonsense, an' though she's lib'ral with 'er pennorths an' pints she don't wait till a man's full boozed 'fore lockin' up the tap-room. 'Git to bed, yer hulkin' fools!' sez she, 'or ye may change my '_O_tel for the Sheriff's.' An' they all knuckles down afore 'er as if they was childer gettin' spanked by their mother. Ah, she'd 'a made a grand wife for a man! 'E wouldn't 'ave 'ad no chance to make a pig of hisself if she'd been anywheres round!”
”Perhaps she won't take me in!” suggested Helmsley.
”She will, an' that sartinly!” said Peke. ”She'll not refuse bed an'
board to any friend o' mine.”
”Friend!” Helmsley echoed the word wonderingly.
”Ay, friend! Any one's a friend what trusts to ye on the road, aint 'e?
Leastways that's 'ow I take it.”
”As I said before, you are very kind to me,” murmured Helmsley; ”and I have already asked you--Why?”
”There aint no rhyme nor reason in it,” answered Peke. ”You 'elps a man along if ye sees 'e wants 'elpin', sure-_ly_,--that's nat'ral. 'Tis on'y them as is born bad as don't 'elp nothin' nor n.o.body. Ye're old an'
f.a.gged out, an' yer face speaks a bit o' trouble--that's enuff for me.
Hi' y' are!--hi' y' are, old 'Trusty Man!'”
And striding across a dry ditch which formed a kind of entrenchment between the field and the road, Peke guided his companion round a dark corner and brought him in front of a long low building, heavily timbered, with queer little lop-sided gable windows set in the slanting, red-tiled roof. A sign-board swung over the door and a small lamp fixed beneath it showed that it bore the crudely painted portrait of a gentleman in an ap.r.o.n, spreading out both hands palms upwards as one who has nothing to conceal,--the ideal likeness of the ”Trusty Man” himself.
The door itself stood open, and the sound of male voices evinced the presence of customers within. Peke entered without ceremony, beckoning Helmsley to follow him, and made straight for the bar, where a tall woman with remarkably square shoulders stood severely upright, knitting.
”'Evenin', Miss Tranter!” said Peke, pulling off his tattered cap. ”Any room for poor lodgers?”
Miss Tranter glanced at him, and then at his companion.
”That depends on the lodgers,” she answered curtly.
”That's right! That's quite right, Miss!” said Peke with propitiatory deference. ”You 'se allus right whatsoever ye does an' sez! But yer knows _me_,--yer knows Matt Peke, don't yer?”
Miss Tranter smiled sourly, and her knitting needles glittered like crossed knives as she finished a particular row of st.i.tches on which she was engaged before condescending to reply. Then she said:--
”Yes, I know _you_ right enough, but I don't know your company. I'm not taking up strangers.”
”Lord love ye! This aint a stranger!” exclaimed Peke. ”This 'ere's old David, a friend o' mine as is out o' work through gittin' more years on 'is back than the British Gov'ment allows, an' 'e's trampin' it to see 'is relations afore 'e gits put to bed wi' a shovel. 'E's as 'armless as they makes 'em, an' I've told 'im as 'ow ye' don't take in nowt but 'spectable folk. Doant 'ee turn out an old gaffer like 'e be, f.a.gged an'
footsore, to sleep in open--doant 'ee now, there's a good soul!”
Miss Tranter went on knitting rapidly. Presently she turned her piercing gimlet grey eyes on Helmsley.
”Where do you come from, man?” she demanded.
Helmsley lifted his hat with the gentle courtesy habitual to him.
”From Bristol, ma'am.”
”Tramping it?”