“The same, your Worship.”
“In course aw know th’ spot,” answered Tom briskly. Surely there could be no harm in confessing to a knowledge of that widely known clump of boulders though truth to say, Tom began to feel that no matter how innocent the question might seem it might lead, the deuce knew whither. “What about Pots an’ Pans?”
“Well I think your father, your venerable and respected father, and you were at Pots and Pans about noon of the Friday before Huddersfield Fair?”
“Weel, what if we were? Hannot we a reight?”
“Yes, yes, a perfect right. And I think you had a little conversation about the prisoner there?”
I shall never forget the look of amazed dread with which Tom o’ Bill’s regarded his tormentor. Was the man more than human? he seemed to ask himself. Had he some familiar demon that whispered to him damning secrets?
Then a light burst upon him. “Aw see how it is, th’ owd ’un’s split. My father, mi own feyther’s turned agen me,” he exclaimed, and tottered out of the box, Mr. Blackburn making no sign to stop him.
The magistrates put their heads together.
“We don’t understand all this, Mr. Blackburn,” said the Chairman. “Perhaps you can explain.”
“All in good time, your Worships. Or perhaps my friend’s further witnesses will enlighten us.”