But the voice of the raging water had not stilled like that of the rescued infant. Back went the two men to their task, and worked away with a will to carry hides, bark and implements to places of security. And as they hurried to and fro with loads on back or barrow, up, up, inch by inch, foot by foot, the swelling flood rose still higher, till, lapping the foot-bridge, curling over the embankment, it drove the sturdy tanners back, flung itself into the pits, and, in many a swirling eddy, washed tan and hair and skins into the common current.
Not so much, however, went into its seething caldron as might have been, had the men worked with less vigour; and, quick to recognise the value of ready service, Mr. Clough led his drenched and weary workmen to the “Skinner’s Arms,” in Long Millgate, and ordered a supply of ale and bread and cheese to be served out to them.
At the door of the public-house, where he left the workmen to the enjoyment of this impromptu feast, he encountered Simon Clegg. The kind fellow had taken a hasty run to his own tenement, “just to see heaw ar Bess an’ th’ babby get on;” and he brought back the intelligence that it was “a lad, an’ as good as goold.”
“Oh, my man, I’ve been too much occupied to speak to you before,” cried Mr. Clough. “I saw you foremost in the rescue of that unfortunate infant, and shall not forget it. Here is a crown for your share in the good deed. I suppose that was the child’s mother you gave it to?”
Simon was a little man, but he drew back with considerable native dignity.
“Thenk yo’, measter, all th’ same, but aw connot tak’ brass fur just doin’ my duty. Aw’d never ha slept i’ my bed gin that little un had bin dreawned, an’ me lookin’ on loike a stump. Neay; that lass wur Bess, moi wench. We’n no notion wheer th’ lad’s mother is.”
Mr. Clough would have pressed the money upon him, but he put it back with a motion of his hand.
“No, sir; aw’m a poor mon, a varry poor mon, but aw connot tak’ money fur savin’ a choilt’s life. It’s agen’ mi conscience. I’ll tak’ mi share o’ the bread an’ cheese, an’ drink yo’r health i’ a sup o’ ale, but aw cudna’ tak’ that brass if aw wur deein’.”
And Simon, giving a scrape with his clog, and a duck of his head, meant for a bow, passed his master respectfully, and went clattering up the steps of the “Skinners’ Arms,” leaving the gentleman standing there, and looking after him in mingled astonishment and admiration.