And my aunt lifted her dress and from under the skirt drew a linen bag, which she placed upon the table.
“Count that.” she said.
My father turned over the greasy, dirty notes, pound notes of the Huddersfield Commercial Bank, Ingham’s, wetting his forefinger and counting aloud, very grave, as he always was whenever he counted money. He used to say it gave him a turn, when he went to the Bank, to see the flippant way the young men handled the money across the counter—”But they don’t know its valley, or they’d noan finger it so free,” he would say.
“A hundred pounds, neither more nor less,” he said, after the third counting and blowing of each note to see two hadn’t stuck together. “Wherever did ta get it, Matty?”
“Aw saved it out o’ th’ housekeepin’ brass ’at Wood gives me. Aw’d meant it for George’ on th’ day he should be wed—but nah!”
“It’ll come in useful ony road,” said my father. “Am aw to keep it for thee?”
“Aye, it’s for th’ law.”
“Has ta any fancy?”
“Nay, tha knows best.”
“What does ta say to ’Torney Blackburn? He’s allus done my bit.”