Chris. Have you thought she may not come at all?
Mrs. H. (Grimly.) What do you take me for?
Chris. You never hinted.
Mrs. H. No use putting them sort of ideas into your head.
(Another flash and a peal of thunder.)
Chris. Well, well, those are lucky who haven’t to travel at all on Bank Holiday.
Mrs. H. Unless they’ve got a motor car, like Nat Jeffcote’s lad.
Chris. Nay, he’s not got one.
Mrs. H. What? Why I saw him with my own eyes setting out in it last Saturday week after the mill shut.
Chris. Ay! He’s gone off these Wakes with his pal George Ramsbottom. A couple of thick beggars, those two!