‘So yo' want to know haa aw geet hand o' my missus, dun yo', Mr. Penrose? Well, if hoo'll nobbud be quiet while aw'm abaat it, aw'll tell yo'.’
And so saying, Malachi drew his chair to the fire, and blew a cloud of tobacco-smoke towards the rows of oat-cakes that hung on the brade fleygh over his head.
‘It's forty year sin' I furst wore shoe-leather i' Rehoboth, Mr. Penrose.’
‘Nay, lad, it's noan forty year whol Candlemas. It were February, thaa knows, when thaa come; and it's nobbud October yet. An' thaa didn't wear shoon noather, thaa wore clogs—clogs as big as boats, Mr. Penrose; an' they co'd him Clitter-clatter for a nickname. Hasto forgetten, Malachi?’
‘Aw wish thaa wouldn't be so plaguey partic'lar, lass, an' let a felley get on wi' his tale,’ said Malachi to his wife. And then, turning to Mr. Penrose, he continued: ‘Aw were tryin' to say as it were forty year sin' I come to Rehoboth.’
‘Forty year come Candlemas, Malachi.’
‘Yi, forty year come Candlemas. Aw were bred and born aboon Padiham, an' aw come to th' Brig Factory as cut-looker, an' never laft th' job till aw went to weighin' coil on th' pit bonk.’