Ben o' Bill's, the Luddite: A Yorkshire Tale

by D. F. E. Sykes; George Henry Walker

Mary sprang up as if she’d been shot.

“Yo’ did?”

“Aw did.”

“Then yo’ve a deal to answer for, Ben Bamforth. His mother says that’s what made him peach on George.”

“The devil!” I said, and there was silence, and we sat thinking our own thoughts.

“It wer’ happen my fault,” said Mary at last, sitting down again. “Anyway it’s no use quarrelling about it.”

“Nor crying over spilt milk,” I said.

“But that’s not th’ worst on it by a long chalk,” said Mary.

“Well, let’s hear it?”

“She’s a horrid woman, that Mrs. Walker. Just like an owd witch, an’ such wicked, wicked eyes, a peerin’ at yo’ an’ a peerin’ at yo’, an’ wantin’ to stroke yo’r hair like as if yo’ wer’ a cat. But aw’ll begin at th’ beginnin’.”