The man addressed was one Robbie Anderson, a young fellow who had for a long time indulged somewhat freely in the good ale which the sage had just recommended for use all the year round.  Every one had said he was going fast to his ruin, making beggars of himself and of all about him.  It was, nevertheless, whispered that Robbie was the favored sweetheart among many of Matthew Branthwaite’s young daughter Liza; but the old man, who had never been remarkable for sensibility, had said over and over again, “She’ll lick a lean poddish stick, Bobbie, that weds the like of thee.”  Latterly the young man had in a silent way shown some signs of reform.  He had not, indeed, given up the good ale to which his downfall had been attributed; but when he came to the Red Lion he seemed to sleep more of his time there than he drank.  So the village philosopher had begun to pat him on the back, and say, encouragingly, “There’s nowt so far aslew, Bobbie, but good manishment may set it straight.”

Robbie accepted his rebuff on this occasion with undisturbed equanimity, and, taking a seat on a bench at the back, seemed soon to be lost in slumber.

The dalesmen are here in strength to-night.  Thomas Fell, the miller of Legberthwaite, is here, with rubicund complexion and fully developed nose.  Here, too, is Thomas’s cousin, Adam Rutledge, fresh from an adventure at Carlisle, where he has tasted the luxury of Doomsdale, a noisome dungeon reserved for witches and murderers, but sometimes tenanted by obstreperous drunkards.  Of a more reputable class here is Job Leathes, of Dale Head, a tall, gaunt dalesman, with pale gray eyes.  Here is Luke Cockrigg, too, of Aboonbeck Bank; and stout John Jackson, of Armboth, a large and living refutation of the popular fallacy that the companionship of a ghost must necessarily induce such appalling effects as are said to have attended the apparitions which presented themselves to the prophets and seers of the Hebrews.  John has slept for twenty years in the room at Armboth in which the spiritual presence is said to walk, and has never yet seen anything more terrible than his own shadow.  Here, too, at Matthew Branthwaite’s side, sits little blink-eyed Reuben Thwaite, who has seen the Armboth bogle.  He saw it one night when he was returning home from the Red Lion.  It took the peculiar form of a lime-and-mould heap, and, though in Reuben’s case the visitation was not attended by convulsions or idiocy, the effect of it was unmistakable.  When Reuben awoke next morning he found himself at the bottom of a ditch.

“A wild neet onyways, Mattha,” says Reuben, on Robbie Anderson’s retirement.  “As I com alang I saw yan of Angus Ray haystacks blown flat on to the field—­doon it went in a bash—­in ya bash frae top to bottom.”

“That minds me of Mother Garth and auld Wilson haycocks,” said Matthew.

“Why, what was that?” said Reuben.