“How shall we find it?”
“Ax th’ first bobby we meet, yo’ silly.”
“Why not take the coach?”
“Coach, says ta? What’s legs for, aw sud like to know, an’ it nobbut a matter o’ thirty mile fro’ here to Manchester an’ back. Why, aw knew a felly, a higgler he were, ’at used to walk sixty mile a day an’ go coortin’ at after. Aw’m thinkin’, Abe, tha’s getten some biggish notions i’ thi yead o’ late. Fingerin’ that brass o’ owd Garside’s gi’en thee a touch o’ what, wi’out offence, aw’ll tak’ leave to ca’ swelled yead. If we’n to mak’ Mitchell Mill go there’ll be no coaches for other thee nor me this monny a day. Look at owd Bamforth o’ Slowit yonder, as warm a man as yo’d find i’ these pearts, an him nowt but a han’-loom weiver to start wi. Did he do it on coaches, thinkst ta? Not he, bi gow. He telled me hissen. He used to stan’ Newcastle an’ Macclesfield markets wi’ his cloath. He sent th’ piece on bi th’ carrier. He’d ha’ hugged ’em if he could; but even a Doady has his limits.”
“A Doady?”
“Yo’ know all them parts is called Doady Land. So he sent th’ pieces on by th’ carrier, an’ for hissen just took Shank’s mare. Yo’ can reckon for yersen what a poo’ he had ovver clothiers ’at went bi th’ coach an’ had to put th’ coach fare on to th’ price o’ their pieces. An’ it isn’t th’ coach fare only. Yo’n to stop here for brekfus’, an’ theer for dinner, an’ theer agen for supper an’ them big coachin’-houses know how to charge for their victuals, aw reckon. Then there’s tips to th’ ostler, an th’ waiters, an’ th’ booits, an’ th’ chambermaids—to say nowt o’ th’ drinkin’. But owd Bamforth used to put a big apple pasty ’at their Sarah made for him up his weskit, an’ rare and warm it kept him i’ cowd weather, an’ he’s ca’ at a farmhouse on th’ road an’ get a pint o’ milk for a penny, or mebbe for th’ axin’—an’ theer he were. Coach, indeed! Do yo’ think aw’n gi’en up ale an’ denied missen all th’ little bit o’ pleasure aw ivver had just to throw mi brass away on coaches? No, Abe, lad, we’st fooit it, every inch on it, an’ don’t yo’ forget it.”
And foot it we did—right through Greenfield and Mossley and Stalybridge and Ashton, and so to Manchester, where, sure enough, we had no difficulty in finding the office of Mr. Roberts himself. To me, as I walked the streets of that vast city, it seemed stark madness to think that amid such a multitude as teemed on the wayside any human ingenuity could discover those of whom we were in quest. But that wonderful Yellow Breeches made light of the task.
“It’ll be easy as falling off a tree,” he said. “Garside, the Rev. James Garside, an ordained minister of the Church of England, a graduate of Oxford University. Why, man alive, I suppose I shall have nothing to do but ask at the university and they’ll tell us there who was the Rev. James’s father. And a Manchester merchant, and a rich one, and only dead a matter of forty or fifty years. Pooh! it’s as easy as sinning. But what the young lady ’ll do with her relations when she finds them, or what they ’ll do with her, beats me. A paltry four hundred pounds or so! Who’s going to bother about that? You see, if her relations are rich they won’t want her and her beggarly four hundred; if they’re poor, I take it she won’t want them. However, that’s your business. You say the girl is staying with Mrs. Wrigley at Holly Grove? Very good. Five guineas, please. You’ll hear from me within a week or two. Good morning.”
I paid the five guineas, whilst Jim looked mighty glum, but opened not his mouth till we regained the street.
“Five guineas! he exclaimed. ‘Five gowden guineas. ‘Bang went saxpence,’ th’ Scotchman said when he’d his first tot o’ whiskey i’ Lunnon. An’ bang went yo’r gooid brass; an’ all for what? Aw’m dalled if aw can tell yo. He’s getten howd, onny road, but aw nivver seed brass skip out o’ one chap’s fob into another felly’s as quick i’ my life. It beats conjurin’ hollow. Eh! mon, we’n missed our vocation, as yo’r feyther ‘d ca’ it. Here’s yo an’ me, ovver twelve foot o’ guid bone an’ flesh and blood between us, ’ll ha’ to toil an’ moil an’ sweat for mony a weary day to scrape that bras together, an’ he just says, ‘Five guineas; good morning,’ an’ th’ bonnie yaller gowd’s gone for gooid an’ aw. If ivver aw’n a son aw’ll breed him to be a ’torney. Aw thowt parsons an’ doctors ’d a easy time on it, but lawyerin’ for me, say I. Yo’ do get a bottle o’ physic aat o’ th’ doctor, but yo’n nowt owt o’ yon chap but ‘Gooid mornin’!’ Well, well, th’ longer aw live th’ plainer aw see ’at warkin’s a fooil’s job. Th’ harder th’ work, th’ less th’ pay. Show me a chap ’at slaves his blood to watter an’ aw’ll show yo’ one ’at ’ll, ten to one, dee i’th’ warkhouse. Show me one ’at does nowt fro’ morn to neet an’ aw’ll show thee a man, as like as not, clothed i’ purple an’ fine linen.”