XIII

There’s a pack o’ corn i’ t’ corner, thear, meeterly clane; if ye’re feared o’ muckying yer grand silk cloes, spread yer hankerchir o’ t’ top on’t.” The “rahm” was a kind of lumber-hole smelling strong of malt and grain; various sacks of which articles were piled around, leaving a wide, bare space in the middle. “Why, man,” I exclaimed, facing him angrily, “this is not a place to sleep in. I wish to see my bedroom.” “ Bed-rume! ” he repeated, in a tone of mockery. “Yah’s see all t’ bed-rumes thear is⁠—yon’s mine.” He pointed into the second garret, only differing from the first in being more naked about the walls, and having a large, low, curtainless bed, with an indigo-coloured quilt, at one end. “What do I want with yours?” I retorted. “I suppose Mr. Heathcliff does not lodge at the top of the house, does he?” “Oh! it’s Maister Hathecliff’s ye’re wanting?” cried he, as if making a new discovery. “Couldn’t ye ha’ said soa, at onst? un’ then, I mud ha’ telled ye, baht all this wark, that that’s just one ye cannut see⁠—he allas keeps it locked, un’ nob’dy iver mells on’t but hisseln.” “You’ve a nice house, Joseph,” I could not refrain from observing, “and pleasant inmates; and I think the concentrated essence of all the madness in the world took up its abode in my brain the day I linked my fate with theirs! However, that is not to the present purpose⁠—there