“Go stop her mouth, and come down and let us in. Quick now, or it will be worse for you,” said George, sternly.
We waited a while, only giving a reminder by a hammer tap on the door panels and breaking a window or two out of sheer mischief. Then there was the fumbling at a chain, the bolt shot in its socket, and the kitchen door was opened. And there in the kitchen, where the embers of the fire were still glowing, stood little Mr. ———(I won’t tell his name, for he was a worthy man, only with words bigger nor his heart) in his shirt, his pipe shanks all bare, and his knees knocking together quite audibly. Well! it was a cold night. Say it was the cold. And his hand that held the metal candlestick shook so, the tallow guttered all down the candle side, making winding sheets. At the bottom of the steps leading upstairs, I caught a sight of a vinegar–faced woman in night–dress and a filled cap.
The remains of the supper were on the table, a very frugal supper, some cheese and haver bread. An empty pitcher was on the table. George Thorpe got another candlestick from the high mantlepiece and went down the cellar steps, and we heard him blowing up a spigot and coaxing a barrel, and the ale coming into the pitcher with a gurgle, like you may fancy a man would swallow if he were half–throttled. It was a lean shop, I warrant you.
There was an old oak armchair by the Dutch clock, and George drew it to the fire.
“Sit down, Mr. S———,” he said. “And you, Mrs. S———, go back to bed and keep warm and quiet. It’s no use shouting. Th’ soldiers are away over bi Crosland Moor, th’ constables are over Lindley way. You’ll only catch a cold and spoil your sweet voice. But mind you, no noise, or I’ll send a man to keep you company. And now, Mr. S our business is with you.”
Poor Mr. S———. I smile even yet as I write of him. He trembled so, the rails rattled in the chair, and kept looking this way and that, and jumping at every movement. And yet how he used to strut about the Cherry Tree yard, cursing the ostler, and cuffing the boys that pestered him for pence.
“You have some of the finishing frames in the shed there?” said George.
“Y–e–e–s, good Mr. Ludd, y–e–e–s, but only little ones.”
“How many?”
“One, or mebbe two.”