“And wheer do aw come in?” asked Enoch, who had, doubtless with difficulty, kept silence for quite an unwonted while.

“Aye, aye, Brother Hoyle, and what do you say?” asked his pastor.

“Weel,” began Enoch with great promptitude, for he needed no pressing to speech, and was like our old eight-days clock, in that when once wound up he must needs be suffered to run down at his own sweet will. “Weel, aw think aw see mi way clearly to be o’ mich profit to yar young folk, an’ not forgettin’ missen at th’ same time, for is not the labourer worthy of his hire, and is it not written that thou shalt not muzzle the ox that treadeth out the corn? Aw tak’ it that nother Abe here nor Jim knows mich abaat wool, nor yet abaat the buyin’ thereof. Nah yo’ know aw’n wovven guid wool an’ bad wool all th’ days o’ mi life, an’ what aw dunnot know abaat th’ feel, aye, an’ th’ smell, an’ th’ look o’ wool isn’t worth knowin’. Aw can mind th’ time when th’ packmen used to come ovver fro’ Halifax bi Merry Dale, an’ th’ Valley were fair musical with th’ jingle o’ th’ bells on their pack-horses’ necks. Ah! them were th’ days when yo’ could leet on a mort o’ cheap wool. But th’ wool-stapplers ha’ mostly done away wi’ all that, an’ yo’re more or less at their mercy nowadays, an’ it tak’s a sma’ man all his time to live. But there’s brass to be saved yet bi gerrin’ among th’ farmers on th’ moor-sides at th’ sheep-shearing, an’ buying th’ fleeces. An’ aw think, if it’s all th’ same to yo’, aw’ll just devote my talents to that department. Aw’m hale an’ hearty yet, an’ aw’m weel known. Not but what it’s a pity this didn’t happen thirty year sin’. All mi life aw’ve felt aw were called to greater things nor pushin’ th’ beam o’ a hand-loom, an’ throwin’ th’ shuttle, an’ workin’ th’ treddle, hand an’ fooit an’ back an’ eye all on th’ stretch together. An’ now th’ time’s come—th’ hour’s here, an’ th’ man’s here, an’ his name’s Enoch Hoyle. Nah so mich for th’ wool-buyin’. But it’s one thing to buy wool, an’ it’s another to mak’ it into stuff ’at’ll sell. An’ other o’ yo’ two young men gi’en a thowt to what mak’ o’ stuff yo’re goin’ to manifactur’?”

I looked at Jim and Jim looked at me, both very blankly. Neither spoke.

“Aw thowt as mich. Nah, it’s easy enough to talk o’ startin’ manifact’rin’ o’ yo’r own accaant; but th’ thing is to know what to mak’. Yo’n noa too mich brass to lake wi’; an’ yo’n yo’r name to make. Yo’ll be wantin’ to mak’ summat cheap an’ wi’ a ready sale: summat yo’ll noan sink mich brass in an’ at yo’ can shut as quick as yo’ can get it off th’ looms. Nah! han yo’ turned yo’r thowts to approns, linsey approns?”

Jim and I were still mute.

“Aw thowt as mich,” pursued Enoch triumphantly. “Yo’ were goin’ to manifactur’, but what yo’ were goin’ to manifactur’ yo’d no more thowt nor th’ babe unborn. Weel, if yo’n be guided by owd Enoch, yo’ll start wi’ approns, linsey approns. They’re rough, they’re cheap, if there’s a flaw or two i’ th’ weivin’ it’s no gret matter, an’ yo’ can deal wi’ th’ higglers direct. Then work yo’r way through approns, linsey approns, to flannel shirtin’s an’ shawls, an’ i’ ten years’ time, when owd Enoch ’ll happen be under th’ sod—all that’s mortal on him, but Enoch hissen castin’ down his crown afore the golden throne when th’ Lord’s med up his jewels—i’ ten years’ time, aw say, it’ll be sooin enough to talk o’ makkin’ gooid broad cloth. Yo’ll know th’ tricks o’ trade bi then, an’, God willin’, yo’ll ha’ med yersens a name an’ ha’ put a bit bye to launch out wi.”

“It seems to me,” said my father, “that Brother Enoch speaks the words of wisdom.”

“His ’prentice hand He tried on man,

And then He made the lasses, O,”