Wilson, he said, had threatened him; or, at least, his own flesh and blood.

He had told the man never to come near Shoulthwaite Moss again.
"An' he does," said the dalesman, his eyes aflame, "I'll toitle him into the beck till he's as wankle as a wet sack." He was not so old but that he could have kept his word.

His great frame seemed closer knit at sixty than it had been at thirty.

His face, with its long, square, gray beard, looked severer than ever under his cloth hood.

Wilson returned no more, and the promise of a drenching was never fulfilled.
The ungainly little Scot did not leave the Wythburn district.