Long Tom was true to his word. Justice Radcliffe was hot on the trail of the Luddites. The patrols were more active than ever, and first one and then another was summoned to Milnsbridge House and questioned keenly as to his doings, but for a time nothing came of all this questioning, except that there grew up among the Luds an uneasy feeling that there was a tell–tale in their midst. I lived in daily dread of a visit from Justice Radcliffe, but I never came across him but once. It was about this time, when I was just beginning to get about a bit, my father and ’Siah being back from the markets, and I supposed to be returned with them, I was going through Milnsbridge when I was aware of Mr. Radcliffe on horseback riding towards me, a handsome hearty man as ever you saw in your life. “A fine old English gentleman,” his friends all called him. He drew rein, and at his motion I stood by his saddle.
“Ben Bamforth of Holme, if I mistake not?” he questioned.
“At your service, sir,” I said, with confidence in my voice and little in my heart.
“Good Mr. Bamforth, the clothier’s son.
“The same, sir,—his only son.”
“And following his trade, I hear.”
“What there is of it, sir.”
“A worthy man is your father, Master Bamforth, and a loyal subject of His Majesty. You have been sick of late they say.”
Who said? I wondered but dared not ask, so muttered:
“Nowt to speak on, I’m all right now.”