"Why can't you make it here?"
"I'm missing socks."
"Ho, ho, playing the old game, are you? Want to go to th' hole again, eh?"
"I couldn't stand the hole again, Mr. Cosson, swear to God, I couldn't. But my socks's missing here."
"Missing hell! Who's stealing your socks, eh? Don't come with no such bluff. Nobody can't steal your socks while I'm around. You go to work now, and you'd better make the task, understand?"
Late in the afternoon, when the count was taken, Johnny proved eighteen pairs short. Bradford was "over."
I saw Mr. Cosson approach Johnny.
"Eh, thirty, machine thirty," he shouted. "You won't make the task, eh? Put your coat and cap on."
Fatal words! They meant immediate report to the Deputy, and the inevitable sentence to the dungeon.
"Oh, Mr. Cosson," the youth pleaded, "it ain't my fault, so help me God, it isn't."