“Well,” she cried, letting her ponderous person sink into the old-fashioned elbow chair that stood by the bedside, “owd Robert, yon, ‘ull ha’ to keep quiet for once!  He’ll noan be castin’ up at thee this year as how ’tis.”

Martin rolled his head from side to side, but said nothing.

“Ye’ll be able to start fresh next Club Day,” resumed his spouse cheerily.  “Happen th’ gout ‘ull mak’ an end on poor owd Robert first, though.”

Martin looked at her with a startled air.  “Happen it will,” he assented doubtfully; “ah, it ‘ud ha’ been a fine thing if I could ha’ stolen a march on th’ owd lad this time!  I never got the chance before, but theer he lays yon, fast by the leg!  If I could ha’ made shift to walk this year he could never ha’ cotched me up—­eh, I’d ha’ had a gradely laugh at him.”

“Well, well, ye’ll happen ha’ th’ best on’t another time,” said Mrs. Tyrer soothingly.  “Happen he’ll noan be able to walk no more next year nor this—­happen he’ll noan be here!  Dunnot thou go frettin’ thysel’ this road; nobry knows what’s goin’ to come about i’ this world.”

Martin’s eyes travelled slowly from the ceiling to her face with a puzzled, discontented gaze.

“If th’ owd lad dees afore next year it ’ull spile everything—­’twouldn’t be no satisfaction to walk oftener nor him if he were dead.”

“Well, dunnot thou go frettin’ thysel’ as how ’tis,” repeated his missus with a vague attempt at consolation.

Meanwhile old Wainwright had somewhat calmed down since his wife had imparted to him the welcome tidings that his rival had unwillingly “paired” with him for the morrow’s festivities.  He ceased roaring at his sons and daughters and throwing his bandages at his wife’s head; it must be stated that he never employed any more dangerous missile even in moments of supreme irritation.  Robert Wainwright’s bark was on all occasions worse than his bite, and though recently his bark had been very loud indeed, no one in the little household was in the least scared by it.  This evening, however, “our Tom” and “our Bob,” who had of late satisfied themselves with screwing their bullet heads and a small portion of their persons round the angle of the door, walked boldly in, and cheerfully inquired how feyther felt hissel’; while “our Annie” and “our Polly” actually helped their mother to “straighten” the bed, and ventured to draw the sheet lightly over feyther’s afflicted toe.  The Gaffer, moreover, consented to swallow a basin of gruel with just a dash of spirits in it to take away the sickliness of it.  Doctor Craddock had forbidden all stimulants, but, as Mrs. Wainwright remarked, “a little taste like that, just to make the gruel slip down, couldn’t coom amiss.”  It certainly did not seem to come amiss to Robert, who grew quite jovial as he scraped the basin, and commiserated “owd Martin Tyrer, yon,” with genuine sympathy.