Chapter VI

Tom Pinder was "apprenticed"--so the phrase ran--to Jabez Tinker with all the form and circumstance and not a little of the verbal exuberance of the law. The manufacturer bound himself to the overseers of Saddleworth who stood to the foundling in _loco parentis_, to teach his apprentice the art and calling of a clothier--so manufacturers were then styled, when men were less fond of high-sounding terms and preferred plain English to foreign-fangled names. He also undertook, under his hand and seal, to feed the said Tom and provide him one new suit of clothing each year until he should attain the age of twenty-one years. The overseers, on their part, engaged that the "said Tom should faithfully serve the said Jabez Tinker and his wife and family, his and their lawful orders should do, his secrets should keep, and his goods protect," likewise that the said Tom, so long as his indenture should endure, taverns should not frequent, bowls nor dice should play, fornication should not commit, and marriage should not contract. As the delicate subject of wages was not so much as hinted at in this formidable document, it seemed pretty certain that the ingenuous apprentice would not be exposed to much temptation either from tavern or dice-box; and Mr. Black, after reading, no less than three times, the articles of this solemn covenant could not withhold his admiration of the zealous care the law manifested for the morals of the young. He should think better, he averred, of lawyers ever after, and was inclined to believe they must be a much maligned body of men. If there had only been some mention of the catechism, he said, the deed might have been framed by a Bishop. Mr. Redfearn to whom he thus unbosomed himself said nothing, but there were volumes in the wink he conveyed to the stolid Aleck.

"I could ha' thoiled th' absence o' ony mention o' th' catechism if there'd been some mention o' wage," was his only spoken comment.

"But think of the immense advantage of learning the whole art and commerce of a clothier under such a teacher as Mr. Tinker," urged Mr. Black.

Mr. Redfearn apparently did think, and what he thought was again conveyed to Aleck by a surreptitious wink.

Tom was not long in proving for himself the advantages of being an apprentice. They consisted, so far as he could make out, of being harder worked and more harshly treated than a paid hand, and as for instruction or initiation into the mysteries of the clothier's craft, he was left to learn so much as his own eyes could teach him and his gumption acquire. It was fortunate for him that Ben Garside, with whom he lodged, lived at no great distance from the mill, for he had to be at his work by daybreak in the summer months, and long before the first uplifting of night's black curtain in the cold winter morns. Many who worked in the same mill, young boys and girls not yet in their teens, had to trudge in all weathers from distant homes on the raw hill sides, often by lanes and footpaths deep in mud or slush, often by the light of the many stars, sometimes by the pale glimmer of the lanthorn, sometimes in Egyptian darkness, feeling their way by the touch of walls or hedges or trees, drenched by rain or sleet, pelted by hail, sinking into deep ruts or forging through the drifted snow, lightly clad, the warmest garment of the girls the shawl about their head and ears, their faces pinched and blue with cold, their fingers aching with the shrewd wintry pinch, starting from home without breakfast and hurrying with empty stomachs to their dreary work, ill-clad, ill-shod, worse-fed, and still worse paid. The hours of labour were long. Wilberlee Mill was, though not exclusively, mainly a water-mill, the motive power being led from the mill-dam by a head-goit to the great waterwheel, and from the wheel-race restored by the tail-goit, little diminished, to the river's course, to serve the turn of mill owners lower down the stream. Often in dry seasons the supply of water was scant enough and hence it came that when the dam was flush of water the manufacturer reversed the process of making hay while the sun shone by making pieces while the rain fell. There was little or no restriction in the age at which a child might be sent to work, or the hours for which it might be kept there. It was of so common occurrence as to be almost regarded as a matter of course, not calling for comment, that a child nine or ten years of age should stand to its work sixteen or seventeen hours at a stretch, cramming its meal of water-porridge down its throat in the fluff-laden air of the weaving shed or spinning room, afraid to break off work even to eat a hurried and unsavoury meal. Sometimes the children were locked in the mill all night, and many would fall asleep as they stood, or drop exhausted by their machines only to be roused by a kick from the slubber's clogs, a blow from a roller, or a resounding smack from the slubber's strap.

Tom had been set to billy-piecing, but it was found that his fingers were too big and his joints too set for such work, so, to his great delight, he ceased to rub the skin off his knuckles till they bled again, and was transferred to the "scouring-hoil" and in time had charge of a willey, or as it was sometimes called a "devil," or "fearnowt," an iron monster into whose maw he threw the scoured wool just fresh from the "drying-hoil," to be torn and "teased" by the hundred fangs of the insatiable mouth, digest as it were, in its mechanic stomach, and thence cast out in a light and airy fluff ready to be scribbled, slubbed and in time spun into warp and weft.

But though, for a time, Tom escaped the most arduous and confining and debilitating part of an operative's daily lot, his lines were hard enough. He looked back upon his workhouse life with a sickening yearning, and when he remembered the regular and abundant meals of the House, his gorge rose at the ever-recurring surfeit of water-porridge to breakfast, water-porridge to dinner, water-porridge to supper, and water-porridge between meals.

But for all that Tom grew apace, and his was not the willowy, weedy growth of the towns. If the advocates of vegetarianism want to press their proofs, let them recur to the country-bred, porridge-fed youngsters of a by-gone generation, when they were not cooped up in mills and worked beyond the endurance of Nature. As Tom was often sent out with the lant-barrel to collect from the cottages for miles around the scouring liquid for which ammonia is the modern substitute, he had ample opportunity to stretch his legs and broaden his chest and brace his sinews; so that when, as time went on; he attained to the dignity of a loom, he was as well-set-up a youth as one would meet in a day's march, straight, old Hannah Garside vowed, as any "picking rod," with strong limbs and corded muscles, and, best of all, with a sound head and a warm heart,--a happy contrast to the many of his comrades whose shoulders were rounded, and backs bent and legs curved by weary hours of standing and stooping at tasks and under burdens beyond the immature powers of ill-nurtured bodies. It was a common saying in those days that nine out of every ten of the mill-hands of Holmfirth could not stop a pig with their legs.

But the happiest chance that befell the young apprentice was that which made him a lodger with Ben and Hannah Garside. It was long enough before he had much more than a nodding acquaintance either with them or their invalid daughter; for, of weekdays, he took his meals at the mill, and at night he was so dead-beat that he was fain to wash himself and steal to bed; and on Sundays, for many a week of his early apprenticeship it was his glad custom to bolt his morning meal and make off as fast as his legs could carry him over the moors to Saddleworth, generally arriving at St. Chad's Church in time to be late for the morning service, but ample time to accompany Mr. Black or Mr. Redfearn home to a better dinner than Hannah Garside had ever seen, or even dreamed of.

But as the summer mellowed into autumn and the autumn drooped to Winter, there came Sundays when wind and rain made the tramp over the storm-beaten moors a matter not to be undertaken merely for a jaunt's sake, and Tom had, perforce to put up with the somewhat meagre fare furnished by Hannah Garside.

Sunday was the one day in the week when there was meat hot and fresh to dinner-roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with pickled cabbage, and sometimes rice pudding. One can imagine what a welcome day that weekly day of rest and feasting was, the day when the village "knocker-up" forbore to rattle at the door or tap the chamber window with long stick, calling out belike: "Ger up, Tom, an' howd th' dog while aw wakken thee." Daily use would break the morning sleep of the wearied toiler, but, oh! how sweet to remember with your first yawn that it was Sunday, and that if you liked you could spend the livelong day in bed, or at least, forego your morning meal and stretch between the blankets till the steaming fragrance from the revolving spit saluted your nostrils and sent you with yearning stomach down the rickety steps to cozen a sop from Hannah, stooping with reddened face over the spit, basting the revolving joint as it shed its dripping over the Yorkshire pudding, whilst Lucy, propped up with many pillows, peeled potatoes, or, on rare and great occasions, pared the apples for pie or pudding, chatting pleasantly, and soothing the ruffled temper of her mother.

And it was of Sunday afternoons that began those long talks with Ben Garside that had no less influence on Tom's destiny than the earlier monitions of Mr. Black, or the shrewd worldly axioms of Tom o' Fairbanks.

It had been a matter of less surprise than delight for Ben to find that Tom could not only read, but read without having to spell out or slur over long words. The joy of Hannah was great thereat, for so was Ben deprived of any pretext for sneaking out of a Sunday morning to the nearest public to hear the paper read. Now, she managed to produce each week a penny, by virtue of which Ben became one in a partnership of six, whose united contributions purchased a weekly paper. It mattered not at all that when it reached Ben's house it was much thumbed and soiled and beer-stained, for in virtue of receiving it when truly it was a week old and much the worse for wear, Ben was allowed to retain it in perpetual proprietorship, and, had made a cover of "rolling boards" in which the copies were tenderly hoarded up and treasured.

Now Ben was a great politician, and if pressed upon so close and home a matter would profess and express himself an Owenite. Add to this that he very rarely troubled either chapel or church except on Christmas Day, and that he made a point of slinking out of the house if he chanced to be in when the vicar of the parish or the shepherd of a dissenting fold called at the cottage.

"Aw cannot abide parsons," he confided to Tom one day. "Though aw wodn't let yar Lucy yer me say so for worlds."

Now Tom, as we know, had been taught to respect the Church, and he was absolutely against when Ben Garside, a little wiry, keen faced, middle-aged man, eager of speech and not a little fond of the sound of his own voice, went on:

"Weel, Tom, aw'm nowise minded to hurt yo'r feelin's, an' if th' parsons wer owt like that Mister Black 'at yo set such store by, an' well yo've a reet to by all accaants, if they tuk after him, aw'd happen ha' cause to alter mi mind. But "ifs" an' "buts" ma' all th' differ i' this world, an' they simply isn't."

"Well, they couldn't be better," said Tom, pleased with this tribute to his benefactor.

"Noah, but they set up to be. Nah aw'll nooan go as fur as some folk 'at aw know, 'at say as parson's bun' to be oather a rogue or a fooil."

"That's strong, Ben, isn't it?"

"Aye, lad, it's nooan exactly what yo'd call meeat for babes; but aw reckon it meeans summat like this--'at if a parson believes all he preeaches he's a fooil, an' if he dunnot he's t'other thing."

"But surely," began Tom.

"Aye, aye, aw know what yo'd say--'at they _do_ believe. Weel then aw'll tell yo' I'm too mich respeck for their intellec's to think at them, wi' all their college larnin', can believe one hawf o' what ther paid to teach. Nooah, nooah, religion as them mak' o' preachers mis-ca' their teachin' is nobbut fit for women an' childer, an' to keep th' ignorant i' awe. Nah! _aw'm_ a _reely_ religious man missen, an' that's why aw dunnot hold wi parsons."

This seemed a somewhat novel reason for discrediting ministers, and Tom could but look his surprise, which was exactly what Ben wanted.

"Nah! aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance," he said, sitting on a low wall--they were out for a walk--and bidding Tom follow his example. "Aw'll gi' yo' a hinstance. Yo'n bin to th' Baptis' Chapel, wheer Jabez Tinker goes?"

Tom nodded.

"Nah, then, if yo'll swallow all th' parson says at Aenon yo' mun believe that afore aw wer' born aw wer' predestined awther to heaven or hell--yo' follow me?"

"Weel, tak' it 'at aw wer' predestined for hell, just for argyment's sake."

Tom thought it more than probable that this dreadfully free-spoken man was at least in danger of the fire, so he conceded the postulate.

"Nah! Do yo' think it fair o' God Almighty to send a poor weak sprawlin' infant into th' world, knowin' full weel 'at after mebbe sixty or seventy yer o' moilin' an' toilin' an' scrattin', he'd end up wi' weepin' an' wailin' an' gnashin' o' teeth for all eternity. Aw put it to yo' Tom, wod yo' ha' done it yersen?"

"But if you were to go to Church, Ben, or even to Chapel," began Tom.

"That doesn't touch th' point. Th' point is at One they sen is Love, suld suffer a bairn to be born i'to this world, weel knowin' its awful end."

"And don't _you_ believe in God?" asked Tom, sinking his voice almost to a whisper and edging a little further off his companion.

"Aw do that, lad, but nooan i' siccan a God as that'n. But aw'n nooan done wi' th' parsons yet--one thing at a time. Yo' know aw can read th' Bible, though nooan so glib-like as yo' can, but aw think on what aw read. Nah chew this tex' ovver th' next time yo' go to th' church. Yo'll find it i'th' General Epistle o' James:--

"'For if there come unto your assembly a man with a gold ring, in goodly apparel, and there come in also a poor man in vile raiment, an' yo' hav' respec' to him 'at weareth the gay clothin', an' say unto him, sit yo' here in a guid place; an' say to th' poor, stan' yo' theer, or sit under my fooitstooil.' Well, lad, tha's bin a Workhus lad thissen, an' yo' know weel enough wheer they towd yo' to sit."

Tom did know, and reflected that on the whole he had very much preferred the dark corners of the gallery to the chief places in the synagogue; but he had the sense to know his reasons were not of grace.

"Aye, an' it's th' same all through," went on the little hand-loom weaver, growing excited and warming to his topic. "It's th' same all through. They're all tarred wi' th' same brush, or welly (well-nigh) all on 'em. They uphowd th' rich, an' they patronize th' poor, aw' most to a man. Why, see yo', we'n been feightin' for th' Factory Act i' this district ivver sin Sir Oastler tuk his coit off an' put his neck to th' collar i' 1830, afore yo' were born. How many o'th' parsons i' this district, dun yo' think, has sided wi' th hand agen th' maisters? Ther' wer th' Reverend Madden, o' Woodhouse, _he_ com' aat like a man, but he had to dare to be a Daniel an' dare to stand alone, as th' hymn says. Yo'st take all th' progress 'at's bin made i'th' world sin th' days o' Adam, an' tak' it broadly speikin' yo'll find 'at th' parsons ha' bin agen it. There's Stephen's th' Wesleyan minister an' Chartist he cam' to Huddersfield wheer had he to talk do'st think? I'th' Parish Church? Not he, faith. I'th' Wesleyan Chapel? Not he. I'th Hall 0' Science, man, i' Bath Buildings, a infidel shop, th' bigots ca'ad it."

"But surely, Ben, you believe in something. You say you believe in God. You believe in Christ too, don't you?"

"Aye i' th' _natural_ Christ, but nooan i'th' travesty o' Jesus o' Nazareth 'at th' owd monks twisted an' fashioned out o' th' natural man till his own mother wouldn't ha' known him. _Aw_ believe in him, but th' parsons don't."

"Nay, nay, Ben," expostulated Tom, bewildered, shocked, but interested.

"They dooan't. They sen they do, an' they happen think they do, for it's wonderful, just fair cappin', how folk can cheeat their own sen. Nah! Aw'll just ax yo' if yo' wer to steal th' vicar's cooat, or poise his shins for 'im, wheer do'st think tha'd sleep to-neet? I' th' towzer,[1] wouldn't ta."

[1] a lock-up or a police-cell.

Tom thought this highly likely.

"But that's nooan what Jesus towd folk. An' what abaat heeapin' up stores o' riches i' this world wheer moth an' rust doth corrupt an' thieves break through an' steal? Weel, if there's a chap i' all this valley at's keener after brass nor some o'th' parsons _aw_ know an' some o'th' deacons _yo_' kno, aw dooant want to have ony truck wi' 'em for one."

Tom thought of Ephraim Thorpe, and was mute.

"But that's nooan th' warst aw han agen th' parsons. They're nobbud men, though they set thersen up for saints, an' there's good an' bad amang 'em same as there is amang other folk, aye, an' allus will be as long as th' world goes round, but ther's just one doctrine 'at sticks i' my gizzard waur nor all th' others."

Tom thought it must be a particularly lumpy doctrine, if this were so, for Ben seemed to have a narrow and constricted throat.

"Yo' heard th' parson tell folk to be content wi' that station i' life to which it has pleased Providence to call 'em."

"Well, it's no use being anything else that I can see," said Tom, getting tired of being talked down and jumped on, in a manner of speaking.

"A'm ashamed on yo', Tom. Aw thowt better things on yo', after all my talkin' to yo'. Nah, my motto is, Be content just as long as yo' can't better yo'sen; but it's yo'r bounden duty to yo'r sen an' yo'r fam'ly, when yo' get one, an' yo'r fellow-men, to be as discontented as ever yo'n reason to be, an' to try all yo' know to better yo'sen an' them. Discontent, lad, 's th' basis o' all progress, an' yo'll nooan be a reformer till yo'r chock full on it. Look at Moses, nah!"

But Mrs. Garside might be seen at the cottage door beckoning them to tea, for there was ever a cup of tea on Sunday afternoon with wheat bread and fresh butter, and lettuce or watercress and radishes and spring onions, when the season served, and these fresh pulled from Ben's little garden patch, or gathered from the brim of the purling brook.

Tea over, Ben seated himself by the hearth on which was spread the large warm list rug, like Joseph's coat of many colours, lists which Lucy had herself cut and her own mother stitched into the stout canvas backing. Ben justly regarded this rug as a work of art, and when he ventured to plant his feet upon it of a Sunday night, did so, as it were, apologetically.

"But we hannot finished our talk yet, Tom," he began, puffing vigorously at his clay pipe to assure that well-gripped glow that permits of soliloquy or monologue. "Aw wer' sayin' when Hannah ca'ed us in."

"Now, father," interrupted Lucy, "remember what day it is, don't let us have any o' those horrid politics, they only put yo' in a fash an' a tantrum."

"Tom 'll ha' to bide it," said Hannah, who was pleased to see her husband settle down by his own fireside and cross his legs upon his own hearth, as what wife is not. "Tom 'll ha' to bide it. Yo'r father's like a eight-day clock. If Tom's wun' 'im up, Tom mun let 'im run daan."

"Well, aw wer' sayin'--at what wer' aw sayin'?--guise-'ang-me if aw hannot forgotten wheer aw left off--Oh! Abaat Moses. Nah, tak' th' Book theer. Reick it daan, Hannah, reick it daan, Tom 'll happen mash a ornament or crumple a fal-de-lal" and Ben winked at Tom in token that this must be taken as a subtle innuendo at Hannah's over-tidiness.

But Hannah was impervious to innuendo, and carefully lifted down the ponderous family Bible, bound in stout leather covers with brass corners, and containing on the front leaf in faint ink and sprawling characters the brief records of marriages, births and deaths. The book had been given to Hannah by her grandmother on her death-bed, and never did priest of Levi touch the Ark of the Covenant with more reverent hand than hers as it held the sacred volume.

"Nah, lad, read that abaat th' ovverseer an th' Hebrew."

Tom looked at Lucy for further explication.

"Father allus picks th' fightin' bits i' th' Scriptures," she said.--"I like th' stories o' Jesus best, myssen--but as long as it's i' th' Bible it must be good, so best humour him. It's wheer Moses felled th' taskmaster."

And Tom read:

"'And it came to pass in those days, when Moses was grown, that he went out unto his brethren and looked on their burdens: and he spied an Egyptian smiting an Hebrew, one of his brethren.

'And he looked this way and that way and when he saw that there was no man, he slew the Egyptian and hid him in the sand.'"

"Aye, aye, blood's thicker nor watter, all th' warld ovver," commented Hannah, who sat rocking herself softly before the dying embers of the fire, her nervous fingers playing with the corners of her apron, lacking the knitting needles that are to a woman what a pipe is to a man.

"Eh! That Moses wer' a man after mi own heart," burst in Ben. "Just think on it; theer he wer', browt up o' th' fat o' th' land, wi' th' best o' ivverything to eit an' drink, an' brass for owt; an' nowt to do but scrape his leg to th' powers 'at be an' he wer' a made man for life. There isn't one man in a thaasand, pampered an' fed an' thrussen up as he wer', but thrussen up as he thrussen up as he 'ud a left th' poor bondslaves to shift for theirsens, yo' needn't go aat o' Holmfirth to see that e'ry day o' yo'r life. Gi' a workin' man a bit o' power an' a bit more wage an' set 'im ovver t' others an' he'll what-do-you-ca' it?--'out-Herod Herod,'" and Ben paused in evident gratification at this rounding of his period, but added on reflection, "or mebbe, aw sud say, out-Pharaoh Pharaoh. But Moses nah"...

"Yes but, father," said the gentle voice of Lucy, as she laid her thin white hand caressingly on her father's knee--"Yar Lucy can leead th' father wi' a threed o' silk," thought the mother.--"Yes but, father, Moses had a direct order from God; 'I will send _thee_ unto Pharaoh, that thou mayest bring forth my people out of Egypt.'"

"True enough, lass, true enough: but yo'll obsarve 'at th' angel o' the Lord didn't appear to Moses till he'd shown th' stuff he wer' made on. Aw tak' it God likes to know summat abaat folk afore He sets 'em on to gaffer a job. Us workin' folk didn't go to Oastler i' that gret haase o' his at Fixby, aboon Huddersfilt yonder, till he'd written to th' pappers an' spokken aat like a man abaat th' ill-usage o'th' little childer. It's a long day sin' but we'st win yet, as sure as God's i' heaven, for He has surely heard the cry of the little uns, an' He has seen the oppression wherewith the Egyptians oppress them."

"But, Ben," said Tom, "we aren't living in Egypt, an' Queen Victoria isn't Pharaoh, and we aren't bond slaves."

"Oh! th' warst kind o' slave's him," retorted Ben, "as doesn't know he is a slave. Look at Lucy theer, her 'at sud ha' bin, aye an' wod ha' bin', as strong as a young colt, on' what is 'oo nah, a lily brokken on its stalk--mi poor lass, mi poor lass"--and the father's voice broke and the mother's face was turned aside.

"Dunno greet, father I'm very happy, for aw nivver knew till aw wer bed-ridden how sweet life can be wheer love is."

"Wheer's yo'r een, Tom?" went on Ben very fiercely, to hide his softer feelings, "wheer's thi e'en? aw say. Isn't Sam Buckley th' spinner at Wilberlee yet?"

Tom nodded.

"Weel, aw know Sam. 'As to ivver seen him peilin' an' cuffin' th' young 'uns abaat th' yed, wi' them big fists o' his'n, little, wee, puny, ramshackle things o' scorn an' eight yer owd, all skin an' bone, so to speak, an' precious little bone at that. Hasn't ta seen 'im strappin' 'em an' layin' abaat 'im reet an' left wi' a roller as thick ay yo'r shackle, an' crack'd 'em abaat t' poll till th' blood's come, when he's getten 'is skin full o' four-ale? Things ha' altered strangely if tha hasn't, or else tha'rt stone-blind and past prayin' for."

Now Tom had seen this and felt it too; but he had supposed it was all part of the day's work. He saw others put up with it, and he had put up with it--it might, for aught he knew, be involved in that all-controlling indenture of apprenticeship.

"Aye, it's true enough," he said, "I've wondered about it, Ben. Isn't ther' a law against it? Mr. Black says there's one and the same law for the rich and the poor."

"Then Mr. Black's nooan as knowin' as aw tak' 'im to be. Law! Law fiddlesticks! Tak' an' overseer afore th' magistrates--most on 'em manufacturers theirsen--for beeatin' a child, nivver name a 'prentice--why, yo' might as weel fall out wi' owd Harry an' go to hell for justice.--But it's time yo wor i' bed, lad, if tha meeans to gooa to-neet, an' nivver tha forget abaat Moses. Gooid neet to yo'."

Now it so befell that on the afternoon of the very next day it was Tom's ill-fortune to become embroiled with that same Sam Buckley. The foreman spinner was a big, burly fellow, broad-shouldered and vast of paunch. He had the fishy eye and mottled face of the heavy drinker and a short and uncertain temper; not, perhaps an ill-meaning man, but quick and heavy with his shoulder-of-mutton hands. It chanced that Mr. Tinker had been obliged to go to Huddersfield that day and was not expected at the mill till late in the afternoon. As the day lengthened, the sky had become overcast, the air sultry with the unseasonable warmth and closeness that tells of a brooding storm or the artillery of the heavens. The upper room of the mill, where the billy-pieceners were mostly engaged, was a long, low chamber. Its walls had once been whitewashed but were now a dull, dirty colour from mingled grease and fluff and dust. The floors were cased with grease. There was little ventilation, except the air that entered when the door opened or through an odd broken Window; pane or so. The inner air was hot to sultriness, laden with the breath of a score or so of workers and with the rancid smell of machine oil. The spinner had gone to his dinner, and it was seldom he missed "calling" on his way back to the mill. It was a toss-up whether he would return in a good or a bad temper. If in a good one he would probably spend a half-hour or so in the weaving-shed among the grown-up girls who worked there, making jests and taking the coarse liberties they dared not resent if they would keep their looms. If in a bad temper he would make for the "billy-hoil," where it would be safe to vent it. Now this afternoon he was in a particularly bad temper.--Monday is often given up to bad temper. The overeating of Sunday conduces to it, the fact that Monday is, in the parts of which I write, as sacred to the wash-tub as Sunday is to the chapel, does not soothe it. The moment Sam shoved open the door, with thunder on his brow and lightning in his eye, the quick-witted hands, sharp beyond their tender years, sniffed the threatening storm, and bent with intent looks and nimble fingers over their work. But little "Billy-come-a-lakin" had succumbed to the drowsy influences of the time and place. Sat upon the floor, his little legs outstretched, his back against the greasy wall, his dinner can by his side, Billy slept. He had just time to start from his slumber and his dreams when Sam pounced upon him and dragged him to the central gangway of the long chamber, the lad shrinking within himself, cowering and whimpering, and but half awake.

"So aw've caught o', have aw, yo' young gallows bird? This is th' way yo' rob yo'r mester, as soon as a man's back's turned."

"Please sir aw couldn't help it; summat cam' ovver me, an' mi legs seemed to ha' nooa feel in 'em, an' oh! aw wer so tired. Don' beeat me, Sam, it'll mak mi mother greet so, if 'oo sees th' marks on me when aw doff missen to-neet."

"Aw'll mark yo' nivver fear, aye an' gi' yo' summat 'at 'll keep yo wakken, too, yo' idle good-for-nowt," and Sam swung in with a piece of belting thicker and broader than a navvy's belt.

Now it was at just this moment that Tom took the door. He had come from the dyehouse to match a cop.

"Hold," he cried, and strode quickly up the room, "you won't beat that child, Sam, wi' that strap. Drop it, I say."

"An' who'll stop me?" roared Sam.

"I will."

"Then tak' that for thi' impudence yo' d----d, meddlin' workhouse bastard," and Sam brought the stinging leather right across Tom's flashing cheek.

Then, quick as lightning, sped a downright blow, straight from the shoulder true between the eyes, and Sam fell like a stricken ox, ignominious, into a skep of cops. There was the quick catching of breath from a score of throats as two score eyes watched the bully's fall, and Tom, as he looked about him, felt prouder and gladder than all his life before.

"Eh! but aw'st catch it for this," whispered Billy-come-a-lakin. "Aw'll run for it whilst aw've th' chance," and he fled the place, and his billy knew him no more that week.

"Yo'n nooan heerd th' last o' this," said Buckley, as he slowly picked himself up, dazed and scowling. "Aw'll mak' yo' pay for this day's wark, if aw swing for it, mind yo'r piecenin', yo' young limbs o' Satan, an' quit yo'r gapin'," and the irate spinner stalked out of the "scribbling boil."

Tom did the errand on which he had been sent by the dyer and made his way down the outer steps to return to his own work. He had to cross the mill-yard. Mr. Tinker had just ridden in at the gate and now was bending his head from the saddle to hearken to the tale Sam was pouring into his ear. Tom saw his master's brow contract.

"Send him to me," Tom heard, "I'll deal with him. It's rank mutiny."

Tom stepped forward and stood by the horse's side.

"I'm here, sir," he said quickly, tho' he could hear the beating of his own heart.

The riding-whip was raised with quick and angry menace. Tom never flinched, he only dug his nails into his palms to stay his tingling nerves. But the blow fell not.

"_Where_ do you say you come from?"

"Diggle, sir," and Tom's quiet grey eye looked his master in the face. "You hired me yourself at the Workhouse."

Jabez Tinker peered, in the falling autumn light, into the lad's pale set face and scanned it searchingly.

"How came that weal across your cheek?"

"Sam can tell you best," was the quiet reply.

"You said nothing of this Buckley," said the master. "Mind when you come to me again, you don't come with half a tale. Go your ways, Pinder, but let me have no more of this broiling or you'll soon regret it."

And Jabez Tinker dismounted, threw the reins to Buckley, who stood surlily by, waiting the upshot of his complaint, and walked without another word to the office. But he had sighed as he watched Tom's upright, sinewy figure cross the mill yard, and a lingering, longing look followed the unwitting 'prentice.