John Fry, who in the spring of fright had brought himself down from
Smiler's side, as if he were dipped in oil, now came up to me, all risk
being over, cross, and stiff, and aching sorely from his wet couch of
heather.

"Small thanks to thee, Jan, as my new waife bain't a widder. And who be
you to zupport of her, and her son, if she have one? Zarve thee right if
I was to chuck thee down into the Doone-track. Zim thee'll come to un,
zooner or later, if this be the zample of thee."

And that was all he had to say, instead of thanking God! For if ever
born man was in a fright, and ready to thank God for anything, the name
of that man was John Fry not more than five minutes agone.

However, I answered nothing at all, except to be ashamed of myself; and
soon we found Peggy and Smiler in company, well embarked on the homeward
road, and victualling where the grass was good. Right glad they were
to see us again--not for the pleasure of carrying, but because a horse
(like a woman) lacks, and is better without, self-reliance.

My father never came to meet us, at either side of the telling-house,
neither at the crooked post, nor even at home-linhay although the dogs
kept such a noise that he must have heard us. Home-side of the
linhay, and under the ashen hedge-row, where father taught me to catch
blackbirds, all at once my heart went down, and all my breast was
hollow. There was not even the lanthorn light on the peg against the
cow's house, and nobody said "Hold your noise!" to the dogs, or shouted
"Here our Jack is!"