“Oh! th’ warst kind o’ slave’s him,” retorted Ben, “as doesn’t know he is a slave. Look at Lucy theer, her ’at sud ha’ bin, aye an’ wod ha’ bin’, as strong as a young colt, on’ what is ’oo nah, a lily brokken on its stalk—mi poor lass, mi poor lass”—and the father’s voice broke and the mother’s face was turned aside.
“Dunno greet, father I’m very happy, for aw nivver knew till aw wer bed-ridden how sweet life can be wheer love is.”
“Wheer’s yo’r een, Tom? “went on Ben very fiercely, to hide his softer feelings, “wheer’s thi e’en? aw say. Isn’t Sam Buckley th’ spinner at Wilberlee yet?”
Tom nodded.
“Weel, aw know Sam. ’As to ivver seen him peilin’ an’ cuffin’ th’ young ’uns abaat th’ yed, wi’ them big fists o’ his’n, little, wee, puny, ramshackle things o’ scorn an’ eight yer owd, all skin an’ bone, so to speak, an’ precious little bone at that. Hasn’t ta seen ’im strappin’ ’em an’ layin’ abaat ’im reet an’ left wi’ a roller as thick ay yo’r shackle, an’ crack’d ’em abaat t’ poll till th’ blood’s come, when he’s getten ’is skin full o’ four-ale? Things ha’ altered strangely if tha hasn’t, or else tha’rt stone-blind and past prayin’ for.”
Now Tom had seen this and felt it too; but he had supposed it was all part of the day’s work. He saw others put up with it, and he had put up with it—it might, for aught he knew, be involved in that all-controlling indenture of apprenticeship.
“Aye, it’s true enough,” he said, “I’ve wondered about it, Ben. Isn’t ther’ a law against it? Mr. Black says there’s one and the same law for the rich and the poor.”
“Then Mr. Black’s nooan as knowin’ as aw tak’ ’im to be. Law! Law fiddlesticks! Tak’ an’ overseer afore th’ magistrates—most on ’em manufacturers theirsen—for beeatin’ a child, nivver name a ’prentice—why, yo’ might as weel fall out wi’ owd Harry an’ go to hell for justice.—But it’s time yo wor i’ bed, lad, if tha meeans to gooa to-neet, an’ nivver tha forget abaat Moses. Gooid neet to yo’.”
Now it so befell that on the afternoon of the very next day it was Tom’s ill-fortune to become embroiled with that same Sam Buckley. The foreman spinner was a big, burly fellow, broad-shouldered and vast of paunch. He had the fishy eye and mottled face of the heavy drinker and a short and uncertain temper; not, perhaps an ill-meaning man, but quick and heavy with his shoulder-of-mutton hands. It chanced that Mr. Tinker had been obliged to go to Huddersfield that day and was not expected at the mill till late in the afternoon. As the day lengthened, the sky had become overcast, the air sultry with the unseasonable warmth and closeness that tells of a brooding storm or the artillery of the heavens. The upper room of the mill, where the billy-pieceners were mostly engaged, was a long, low chamber. Its walls had once been whitewashed but were now a dull, dirty colour from mingled grease and fluff and dust. The floors were cased with grease. There was little ventilation, except the air that entered when the door opened or through an odd broken Window; pane or so. The inner air was hot to sultriness, laden with the breath of a score or so of workers and with the rancid smell of machine oil. The spinner had gone to his dinner, and it was seldom he missed “calling” on his way back to the mill. It was a toss-up whether he would return in a good or a bad temper. If in a good one he would probably spend a half-hour or so in the weaving-shed among the grown-up girls who worked there, making jests and taking the coarse liberties they dared not resent if they would keep their looms. If in a bad temper he would make for the “billy-hoil,” where it would be safe to vent it. Now this afternoon he was in a particularly bad temper.—Monday is often given up to bad temper. The overeating of Sunday conduces to it, the fact that Monday is, in the parts of which I write, as sacred to the wash-tub as Sunday is to the chapel, does not soothe it. The moment Sam shoved open the door, with thunder on his brow and lightning in his eye, the quick-witted hands, sharp beyond their tender years, sniffed the threatening storm, and bent with intent looks and nimble fingers over their work. But little “Billy-come-a-lakin” had succumbed to the drowsy influences of the time and place. Sat upon the floor, his little legs outstretched, his back against the greasy wall, his dinner can by his side, Billy slept. He had just time to start from his slumber and his dreams when Sam pounced upon him and dragged him to the central gangway of the long chamber, the lad shrinking within himself, cowering and whimpering, and but half awake.
“So aw’ve caught o’, have aw, yo’ young gallows bird? This is th’ way yo’ rob yo’r mester, as soon as a man’s back’s turned.”