But for all that Tom grew apace, and his was not the willowy, weedy growth of the towns. If the advocates of vegetarianism want to press their proofs, let them recur to the country-bred, porridge-fed youngsters of a by-gone generation, when they were not cooped up in mills and worked beyond the endurance of Nature. As Tom was often sent out with the lant-barrel to collect from the cottages for miles around the scouring liquid for which ammonia is the modern substitute, he had ample opportunity to stretch his legs and broaden his chest and brace his sinews; so that when, as time went on; he attained to the dignity of a loom, he was as well-set-up a youth as one would meet in a day’s march, straight, old Hannah Garside vowed, as any “picking rod,” with strong limbs and corded muscles, and, best of all, with a sound head and a warm heart,—a happy contrast to the many of his comrades whose shoulders were rounded, and backs bent and legs curved by weary hours of standing and stooping at tasks and under burdens beyond the immature powers of ill-nurtured bodies. It was a common saying in those days that nine out of every ten of the mill-hands of Holmfirth could not stop a pig with their legs.
But the happiest chance that befell the young apprentice was that which made him a lodger with Ben and Hannah Garside. It was long enough before he had much more than a nodding acquaintance either with them or their invalid daughter; for, of weekdays, he took his meals at the mill, and at night he was so dead-beat that he was fain to wash himself and steal to bed; and on Sundays, for many a week of his early apprenticeship it was his glad custom to bolt his morning meal and make off as fast as his legs could carry him over the moors to Saddleworth, generally arriving at St. Chad’s Church in time to be late for the morning service, but ample time to accompany Mr. Black or Mr. Redfearn home to a better dinner than Hannah Garside had ever seen, or even dreamed of.
But as the summer mellowed into autumn and the autumn drooped to Winter, there came Sundays when wind and rain made the tramp over the storm-beaten moors a matter not to be undertaken merely for a jaunt’s sake, and Tom had, perforce to put up with the somewhat meagre fare furnished by Hannah Garside.
Sunday was the one day in the week when there was meat hot and fresh to dinner-roast beef and Yorkshire pudding with pickled cabbage, and sometimes rice pudding. One can imagine what a welcome day that weekly day of rest and feasting was, the day when the village “knocker-up” forbore to rattle at the door or tap the chamber window with long stick, calling out belike: “Ger up, Tom, an’ howd th’ dog while aw wakken thee.” Daily use would break the morning sleep of the wearied toiler, but, oh! how sweet to remember with your first yawn that it was Sunday, and that if you liked you could spend the livelong day in bed, or at least, forego your morning meal and stretch between the blankets till the steaming fragrance from the revolving spit saluted your nostrils and sent you with yearning stomach down the rickety steps to cozen a sop from Hannah, stooping with reddened face over the spit, basting the revolving joint as it shed its dripping over the Yorkshire pudding, whilst Lucy, propped up with many pillows, peeled potatoes, or, on rare and great occasions, pared the apples for pie or pudding, chatting pleasantly, and soothing the ruffled temper of her mother.
And it was of Sunday afternoons that began those long talks with Ben Garside that had no less influence on Tom’s destiny than the earlier monitions of Mr. Black, or the shrewd worldly axioms of Tom o’ Fairbanks.
It had been a matter of less surprise than delight for Ben to find that Tom could not only read, but read without having to spell out or slur over long words. The joy of Hannah was great thereat, for so was Ben deprived of any pretext for sneaking out of a Sunday morning to the nearest public to hear the paper read. Now, she managed to produce each week a penny, by virtue of which Ben became one in a partnership of six, whose united contributions purchased a weekly paper. It mattered not at all that when it reached Ben’s house it was much thumbed and soiled and beer-stained, for in virtue of receiving it when truly it was a week old and much the worse for wear, Ben was allowed to retain it in perpetual proprietorship, and, had made a cover of “rolling boards” in which the copies were tenderly hoarded up and treasured.
Now Ben was a great politician, and if pressed upon so close and home a matter would profess and express himself an Owenite. Add to this that he very rarely troubled either chapel or church except on Christmas Day, and that he made a point of slinking out of the house if he chanced to be in when the vicar of the parish or the shepherd of a dissenting fold called at the cottage.
“Aw cannot abide parsons,” he confided to Tom one day. “Though aw wodn’t let yar Lucy yer me say so for worlds.”
Now Tom, as we know, had been taught to respect the Church, and he was absolutely against when Ben Garside, a little wiry, keen faced, middle-aged man, eager of speech and not a little fond of the sound of his own voice, went on:
“Weel, Tom, aw’m nowise minded to hurt yo’r feelin’s, an’ if th’ parsons wer owt like that Mister Black ’at yo set such store by, an’ well yo’ve a reet to by all accaants, if they tuk after him, aw’d happen ha’ cause to alter mi mind. But “ifs” an’ “buts” ma’ all th’ differ i’ this world, an’ they simply isn’t.”