I met her here, at this very place where we're
standin', and I showed her 'at it worn't safe to cross it. I tell'd her
't she owt to have it fastened up theer an' then. It's been rottin' for
many a year, has this owd brig--why, I mind when it wor last repaired,
and that wor years afore owd Mestur Mallathorpe bowt this estate!"
"When do you say you told Mrs. Mallathorpe all that?" asked Pratt.
"Friday noon it were, sir," answered the woodman. "When I were on my way
home--dinner time. 'Cause I met the missis here, and I made bold to tell
her what I'd noticed. That there owd brig!--lor' bless yer, gentlemen!
it were black rotten i' the middle, theer where poor young maister he
fell through it. 'Ye mun hev' that seen to at once, missis,' I says.
'Sartin sure, 'tain't often as it's used,' I says, 'but surely sartin
'at if it ain't mended, or closed altogether,' I says, 'summun 'll be
going through and brekkin' their necks,' I says. An' reight, too,
gentlemen--forty feet it is down to that road. An' a mortal hard road,
an' all, paved wi' granite stone all t' way to t' stable-yard."
"You're sure it was Friday noon?" repeated Pratt.
"As sure as that I see you," answered the woodman. "An' Mrs. Mallathorpe
she said she'd hev it seen to. Dear-a-me!--it should ha' been closed!"
The old man shook his head and went off amongst the trees, and Pratt,
giving his vanishing figure a queer look, turned silently back along the
path, followed by Collingwood.
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