Th’ doctor luk’d at him an’ pool’d a long face an’ sed, ’I’m afraid its of no use, Mr. Stooansnatch; this is a bad case, and had better be taken to the hospital.’

‘Will it be cheaper to have him thear nor at home?’ sed Stooansnatch.

’That I can’t tell, but I shall be compelled to give you into custody.  Murder is a sad thing, Mr. Stooansnatch—­a terrible thing, sir; and the hanging of an old man is an awful thing to contemplate.’

’Murder? hanging?  Aw didn’t do it!  They’ll niver hang me for it, will they?  A’a dear, what’ll come o’ Bessy an’ all my bit o’ brass?  Keep him here, doctor, an’ try to cure him; aw dooant care if it costs a paand,’ an th’ old man trembled wol he had to steady hissen agean th’ bed pooast.

Joa had kept quiet as long as he could, an for fear o’ spoilin it all wi’ laffin, he set up a groan laad enuff to wakken a deead en.

‘Poor fellow,’ sed th’ doctor, givin him a drop o’ brandy, ’that’s a fearful groan.’  He then cut a lot o’ hair, an’ put on abaat six inch square o’ plaister, an’ leavin him, went into th’ next room wi’ owd Stooansnatch, leavin Bessy an’ Joa together, an’ yo may bet Joa made gooid use of his time, for he’d begun his cooartin i’ hard earnest, an’ he meant to goa throo wi’ it.  What they sed to one another aw dooant know, but aw suppoas they talk’d th’ same sooart o’ fooilery as other fowk, an’ believed it.  Haiver, ther’s one thing sartin, they coom to understand one another varry weel, or if they didn’t, they thowt they did.

When th’ doctor an’ th’ owd man wor i’th’ next room, an’ th’ door shut, th’ doctor sed, ’Tell me all about this affair,—­how it happened, and tell me the truth, for if he dies, the law will require me to state all I know, and perhaps it might be possible to have the sentence commuted to transportation for life instead of hanging.’

‘Oh, doctor, do get me aght o’ this scrape if yo can.  Aw’ll tell yo all abaat it, an’ yo tell me what to do.’

Soa he tell’d him all just as it happened, an’ when he’d finished th’ doctor luk’d wise for a minit or two, an’ then he sed, varry slowly an’ solemnly, ’so you spilt a fellow creature’s blood because he wanted to marry your daughter.  The case looks very bad—­very bad.’

‘What mun aw do, doctor?  Connot you tell me what to do?’

’I can only see one way, and that is, if we could bring him to consciousness, and get a minister to marry them before he dies, then you see he would be your son-in-law, and his mother would never like to have it said that her daughter-in-law’s father had been hanged, and the thing might be hushed up; the only difference would be that your daughter would be a widow.’

‘A widow! an’ then shoo could claim his donkey, an puttates, an’ all his clooas, couldn’t shoo?’ ‘Yes, certainly.’

‘Well, they’ll be worth summat, for he’s some varry gooid clooas, an’ they’d just abaat fit me.  Aw think that’s th’ best way to do.’