Mr. Briarley arose in even more than his usual trepidation. He looked from side to side, quaking.
"Wheer is he?" he asked.
Haworth stood on the threshold.
"Here," he answered. "Come out!"
Mr. Briarley obeyed. At the door Haworth collared him and led him down the sanded passage and into the road outside.
A few yards from the house there was a pump. He piloted him to it and set him against it, and began to swear at him fluently.
"You blasted scoundrel!" he said. "You let it out, did you?"
Mr. Briarley was covered with confusion as with a garment.
"I'm a misforchnit chap as is all us i' trouble," he said. "Theer's summat i' ivverythin' I lay hond on as seems to go agen me. I dunnot see how it is. Happen theer's summat i' me a-bein' a dom'd foo', or happen it's nowt but misforchin. Sararann——"
Haworth stopped him by swearing again, something more sulphurously than before—so sulphurously, indeed, that Mr. Briarley listened with eyes distended and mouth agape.
"Let's hear what you know about th' thing," Haworth ended.
Mr. Briarley shut his mouth. He would have kept it shut if he had dared.
"I dunnot know nowt," he answered, with patient mendacity. "I wur na wi' em."
"You know plenty," said Haworth. "Out with it, if you don't want to get yourself into trouble. Who was the chap that threw the stone?"
