one at his tree. He took careful aim at the spot whence the sound proceeded, fired, and a scream told him his bullet had taken effect. In fact, he had hit the thief in the thigh; but the ball had fortunately penetrated the flesh, and broken no bone.
The pear-stealer was caught, and on the first opportunity brought before the magistrates at Thirsk. The presiding magistrate—I think it was Sir John Galway, but am not certain—deemed it advisable to caution John M against too free a use of his gun.
"You know, my good friend, that a gun loaded with a bullet might have killed the man who stole your pears."
"Ah, it might, and it would, but t' gun snecked (kicked) as I were blazin' wi' it."
"If the gun had not 'snecked,' as you call it, the bullet would probably have gone into the poor fellow's heart and killed him dead."
"I'll tak' care it deean't sneck again," said Old John, who had no scruples against shooting a pear-stealer.
Whilst in the parish of Topcliffe I am constrained to relate an anecdote illustrative of Yorkshire shrewdness, though unconnected with Mealy-Face.
An old woman—Molly Jakes, we will call her—died, or was thought to have died, and was buried by the parish. A few days after the funeral the vicar was talking to the sexton, when the latter said, drawing the back of his hand across his nose, "Ye thowt old Molly Jakes were deead, sur?"
"Dead, dead! bless my soul! of course she was."
"Well, mebbe she is neah (now)."
"What do you mean? Speak, for heaven's sake!"
"Nay, sur, it's nowt! Only I thowt efter I'd thrown the mould in as I heeard her movin' and grum'ling under t' greand (ground)."
