|
The Potwell InnX
There followed an anxious peace for three days, and then a rough man in a blue jersey, in the intervals of trying to choke himself with bread and cheese and pickled onions, broke out abruptly into information.
"Jim`s lagged again, Missus," he said.
"What!" said the landlady. "Our Jim?"
"Your Jim," said the man, and after an absolutely necessary pause for swallowing, added: "Stealin` a `atchet."
He did not speak for some moments, and then he replied to Mr. Polly`s enquiries: "Yes, a `atchet. Down Lammam way--night before last."
"What`d `e steal a `atchet for?" asked the plump woman.
"`E said `e wanted a `atchet."
"I wonder what he wanted a hatchet for?" said Mr. Polly, thoughtfully.
"I dessay `e `ad a use for it," said the gentleman in the blue jersey, and he took a mouthful that amounted to conversational suicide. There was a prolonged pause in the little bar, and Mr. Polly did some rapid thinking.
He went to the window and whistled. "I shall stick it," he whispered at last. "`Atchets or no `atchets."
He turned to the man with the blue jersey when he thought him clear for speech again. "How much did you say they`d given him?" he asked.
"Three munce," said the man in the blue jersey, and refilled anxiously, as if alarmed at the momentary clearness of his voice.
|
