"He staid up aw neet to do that theer," remarked one of these. "He's getten a gizzard o' his own, has Haworth. He's done it wi' his own hands."
One gentleman neither grinned nor swore. His countenance fell with singular rapidity. This was Mr. Briarley, who had come up in the rear. He held in one hand a pewter pot which was half empty. He had caught it up in the heat of the moment, from the table at which he had been sitting when the news came.
"What's in th' barrils?" he inquired.
The man he spoke to turned to him roughly.
"Powder," he answered, "an' lead, tha donmed foo'!"
Mr. Briarley looked at his mug regretfully.
"I thowt," he said, "as happen it mought ha' bin beer."
Having reflected a moment, he was on the point of raising the mug to his lips when a thought struck him. He stopped short.
"What's he goin' to do wi' em?" he quavered.
"Ax him," was the grim answer. "Ax him, lad. He dunnot say."
"He is na—" in manifest trepidation, "he is na—goin' to—to fire 'em off!"
"He'll fire 'em off, if he comes across thee," was the reply. "Mak' sure o' that. An' I should na blame him, neyther."
Mr. Briarley reflected again for a few seconds reflected deeply. Then he moved aside a little.
"I hannot seen Sararann sin' yesterday," he said, softly, "nor yet Janey, nor yet—th' owd missus. I—I mun go and see 'em.'"
Haworth kept his word. The next day there was not a
