"I'm a poor chap," he said. "I'm nowt but a poor chap as is all us i' trouble. I'm not th' man yo' ought to ha' had, Sararann."
"Nay," retorted Mrs. Briarley. "That tha'rt not, an' it's a pity tha did na foind that theer out thirteen year ago."
Mr. Briarley shook his head with a still deeper depression."
"Ay, Sararann," he answered, "seems loike it is."
He did not recover himself until Murdoch took his departure, and then he followed him deprecatingly to the door.
"Does tha think," he asked, "as that theer's true?"
"That what is true?"
"That theer th' chaps has been talkin' ower."
"I don't know," answered Murdoch, "what they have been talking over."
"They're gettin' it goin' among 'em as Haworth's goin' to tak' Ffrench in partner."
Murdoch looked up the road for a few seconds before he replied. He was thinking over the events of the past week.
"I do not think it is true," he said, after this pause. "I don't think it can be. Haworth is not the man to do it."
But the idea was such a startling one, presented in this form, that it gave him a kind of shock; and as he went on his way naturally thinking over the matter, he derived some consolation from repeating aloud his last words:
"No, it is not likely. Haworth is not the man to do it."
