But police-court cases have not the charm for Jim Naldret that they have for the women, with whom a trial for breach-of promise is perhaps the most interesting reading in the world.
'There's a strike in the North among the colliers,' says Jim. 'The old hands are beating the new men, and setting fire to their houses.'
'And turning,' adds Mrs. Naldret, 'the women and children into the streets, I daresay--the wretches!'
'I don't know so much about that, mother. Men are goaded sometimes, till they lose their heads. If a man puts my blood up, I hit him.'
'You, father! You hurt any one.'
'I said I'd hit him--I didn't say I'd hurt him. I'd hit him soft, perhaps; but I'd be bound to hit him if he put my blood up!'
'A strike's a wicked thing, father,' is Mrs. Naldret's commentary.
'I don't know so much about that. There's a good deal to be said on both sides.'
'There's Saul Fielding,' says Mrs. Naldret; 'getting up a strike was the ruin of him--and hurt a good many others, hurt 'em badly, as you know, Jim.'
By this time the tea-things are cleared away, the hearth is swept up, and the fire is trimmed. The picture that is presented in this humble room is a very pleasant one; Bessie and Mrs. Naldret are doing needlework more as a pastime than anything else, and Jim is looking down the columns of the Trumpet.