“Tha’rt a hard taskmaster, Abe,” sighed the love-sick giant. “When aw swopped Mester Wrigley for going partner wi’ yo’ aw just jumped out o’ th’ frying-pan into th’ fire. Aw’n put in more time at Mitchell Mill nor ever aw thowt it possible for one man to put in, an’ th’ sweat’s run off me like fat out o’ a Michaelmas gooise i’ a hot oven. But aw’ll do thee justice, Abe, tha’rt noan one to ax another to do what tha’rt noan ready to do thissen. Tha’s swept an’ painted an’ mortared an’ whitewashed inside an’ outside yond’ owd mill till tha stinks o’ turps, an’ limewash is all ovver thi yure (hair) an’ face an’ han’s an’ cloas to sich a tune tha’d do for a churchyard monniment, an’ afore tha can go other to th’ Hollygreave or onny other decent body’s haase aw’st ha’ to put thee i’ th’ scourin’ pan and steam thee, an’ then scrub thee dahn wi’ th’ besom.”
And indeed Jim and I had our hands full. Mitchell Mill had been long untenanted, and had fallen into sad disrepair inside and out. The thatch had fallen in in places, the doors hung on their hinges, there wasn’t a whole window to the place, the mill-dam needed dredging, head-goit and tail-goit cleansing, the water-wheel ought justly to have been mended with a new one—but that was out of the question. But the masonry was good and solid, the floorings sound, and the iron of the gearing, though rusted, still firm. And we got a lease renewable at option for a nominal rental, and that meant a lot to us. Of course, we couldn’t afford to employ slaters, or thackers, or masons, or carpenters, or painters, or millwrights; so we perforce turned ourselves into Jacks-of-all-trades. I made but poorly out except at the lighter jobs, but that Jim, though with many a grunt and groan more than half make-believe, did the work of six men. He had the strength of a Goliath, and could turn it to any use. Only give him plenty to eat and a fair allowance of his favourite homebrewed and Jim seemed as fresh as new paint and ready to start again after doing a day’s work that would have made every bone in my body ache for a week.
Now, in my young days I confess to a fondness for reading the works of Mr. Robert Owen, of Lanark, and, to be sure, we are all taught to believe in the brotherhood of man and to bear one another’s burden, and that may mean that the strong should cheerfully earn the whole cake and give the better half of it to the weak, thankful to be able to do it. And I suppose in a perfect state a man will do his day’s work just because it is his day’s work, and be content to share and share alike with a brother who either can’t or won’t do his. But, alas! we don’t live in a perfect state, and human nature will have a long way to travel before it ceases to be true that if you want to get the best out of a man set him to work for himself. Anyhow—I’m no philosopher—Jim and I toiled in those early days at Mitchell Mill, and for many a long year thereafter, like galley-slaves. We had a long row to hoe, and we knew it. And were there not Miriam and Ruth to cheer us when we despaired, and to lighten our toil by all the arts of loving and good women.
Now, one day in mid-March, whom should we spy seated on a low wall near the mill dam but that queer, uncanny Burnplatter, that same Daft Billy who had fetched me from the watch-night service to the bedside of old Mother Sykes, and who, I had reasons for believing, had carried me to my father’s door after Ephraim had left me for dead on Stanedge top. I could never quite get over a sort of shrinking from the man, but I knew that he loved Miriam as the hound loves its master, and hoped that for Miriam’s sake he would do me no ill if he did me no good. So I went to him with outstretched hand—which he disregarded—and asked him to share the beef and bread and cheese and onions which Jim and I had brought in our handkerchief for our mid-day meal.
“Aw want nowt to eit,” he said, with, I thought, scant courtesy. “Aw want to speik to thee private.” He scowled in the direction of poor Jim, and added, “Send yon’ hulkin’ fooil out o’ earshot.” I gave Jim a hint, and he took his tea-cake and pitcher to another part of the mill.
“Now, what is it?” I asked anxiously. “Nothing wrong with Miriam?”
“Not yetten.”
“But you fear harm to her?”
“Aw shouldn’t be here else. It’s none for love o’ you.”
I quite thought I could believe that.