“I can, I can,” said th’ parson.
“An’ so can I,” said John, wi’ a smile, an he put his head back an’ never spak’ no more; an’, oh! Ben, when aw talk on it aw’m fit to blubber like a child. He wer’ a rare un, wer’ John.”
Mary was there and my mother, and Mary’s face was buried in the counterpane and I heard her sob, and a tear trickled down my mother’s cheek, and I turned my face to the wall and mourned for my friend.
“We got his body,” went on Jack after a long pause. “Mr. Wright, th’ saddler, saw to that. It wer’ brought to his house, an’ th’ funeral wer’ fra’ theer. He wer’ buried i’ Huddersfield Churchyard, an’ all th’ town wer’ theer. George Mellor and Thorpe walked after th’ hearse, an’ all th’ folk, hundreds on ’em, ’at could lay the’r hands on a bit, wore white crape around their arm. It wer’ a gran’ funeral.”
“And Faith?” said Mary.
“’Oo leaned o’ Mrs. Wright, ’at wer’ like a mother to her. Th’ owd father weren’t theer. But Faith looked just all brokken to pieces, poor wench.”
“I’ll go to her, straight away,” cried Mary.
“Aye, do, Mary,” said my mother, “and bring her up to Holme wi’ yo’. She wants some kitchen physic as well as other folk.”
“Yo’ forget yo’r ill i’ bed, aunt,” said Mary, “and Ben’s away to Macclesfield.”
“Well, if aw amn’t, aw soon shall be, if this mak’ o’ wark goes on. Oh! George, tha’s a deal to answer for, an’ it’s much if tha doesn’t break thi mother’s heart afore tha’s done, an’ then there ’ll be an end o’ poor Matty, too.”