When she arrived there, the main street and market were thickly crowded with a swarm of holiday-making pitmen, country folk, farmers and their wives, hinds, male and female, for it was the date of the annual fair and hiring, of ‘the general assembly’ of tramps, pedlars, ‘tinklers’ (tinkers), show-men, and the like, whose business it is to attend such gatherings.
In such a crowd Mary felt safe from recognition, but it might be a difficult task to discover her ‘man’ in all that company.
An hour or two passed, and she had been up and down the long street twice without success; but just as she was turning into a cheap refreshment-room, with ‘Tea and coffy always redy’ written in a slovenly hand upon a dirty placard in the window, she caught the sound of a voice raised in semi-drunken irritation close behind her which caused her to turn her head hurriedly in that direction.
Yes, there he was without doubt, her Geordie, heavy with liquor already—not ‘mortal’ yet, but quarrelsome. Aha! and that was the ‘fancy’ wife, of course, who had him fast by the arm—a blousy, red-faced, fat-armed, big chested woman, who was evidently trying to persuade her charge to come home much against his inclination. At sight of her rival—immodest, gross, overpowering—Mary shrank back aghast, and it was only after a struggle with herself and a forcible iteration of her wrongs, that she could persuade herself slowly and reluctantly to follow the couple in front of her.
‘Ho-way!’ shouted Geordie; ‘there’s Tom Turnbull ower by there tryin’ ti lift weights an’ show ’s strength. Wey, but Tom cannet lift weights, he’s nowt but a wee bit beggor. Tom, thoo beggor!’ he challenged across the intervening throng of heads, ‘thoo cannet lift weights; wey, Aa’l lift weights wi’ thoo for a bottle o’ whisky!’
‘Ho-way, then, thoo aad fightin’-cock! but Aa give thoo fair warnin’ Aa can beat thoo, for Aa’s champion.’
At this, the ‘fancy’ wife seized her ‘man’ firmly by the sleeve, fearing doubtless lest, in his then ‘muzzy’ condition, Geordie would waste the scanty remainder of his brass upon a vain endeavour, and, by way of effectually dissuading him, indiscreetly praised his rival’s prowess.
‘No, no, Geordie, my man, come this way, an’ give us my fairin’; wey, there’s a mort o’ things ti see yet; there’s the shuttin’-gall’ry, an’ the twa-headed cat, an’ the giant, an’ the fat woman, an’ aal—ho-way. Ay, an’ Geordie, hinny, Tom Turnbull’s tarr’ble clivvor at liftin’ they handles things an’ drivin’ the bolt up the stick wi’ the hammer, an’ Aa’s warn’d but he’ll bang thoo at that game.’
‘Tom Turnbull!—that haalf-grown, bandy-legged beggor ov a bit tailor ov a man bang me? Gox! but Aa’ll larn him a lesson. Aa’ll cut his comb, Aa’s warn’d!’ and Geordie forthwith, murmuring maledictions, thrust blindly through the crowd till he reached the spot where his rival stood, the centre of an admiring circle of friends.
‘Noo,’ cried Geordie, turning up his wrist-cuffs, ‘Aa’ll show thoo hoo the thing’s done when it’s done proper. Wey, this bolt ’ll hit the beam at the top when Aa gie the stump a bat!’ and without more ado—amidst the jeers of some, and the encouragement of a few false friends—he seized the hammer, swung it round his head, and brought it down some feet wide of the mark—smash upon the cobble-stones of the market-place. ‘That’s done the business!’ cried Geordie triumphantly, conscious from the stinging of his hands that he had ‘gi’en it a champion bat,’ and certain that he had driven up the bolt some feet above his rival’s mark.