“Indeed! His name, Joe?—You look well this morning.”
“Only the Rev. Moses Barraclough: t’ tub orator you call him sometimes, I think.”
“Ah!” said the Rector, taking out his snuff-box, and administering to himself a very long pinch—“Ah! couldn’t have supposed it. Why, the pious man never was a workman of yours, Moore? He’s a tailor by trade.”
“And so much the worse grudge I owe him, for interfering, and setting my discarded men against me.”
“And Moses was actually present at the battle of Stilbro’ Moor? He went there—wooden leg and all?”
“Ay, sir,” said Joe; “he went there on horse-back, that his leg mightn’t be noticed: he was the captain and wore a mask; the rest only had their faces blacked.”
“And how was he found out?”
“I’ll tell you, sir,” said Joe: “t’ maister’s not so fond of talking; I’ve no objections. He courted Sarah, Mr. Moore’s sarvant lass, and so it seems she would have nothing to say to him; she either didn’t like his wooden leg, or she ’d some notion about his being a hypocrite. Happen (for women is queer hands—we may say that amang werseln when there none of ’em nigh) she’d have encouraged him, in
