“From William—from whom?” queried the little man; and to those on the pieceboards he seemed pleased that any should take the trouble to talk to one so insignificant as he.
“Your predecessor; you did not know him? Our very good friend, Huggins was; always, in some respects, a ‘Pot o’ One’ (as they say here of a man who combs his wool alone)—that was the disability of his office. Unofficially, we counted him one of ourselves.”
“The poor fellow is—hn, hn!—dead, then?”
“One foggy evening last November, with a pot in his hand and a pipe in his mouth, like the gentleman in the ballad. Died of a Halo Punch.—But you must let me show you our market.”
“Thank you, thank you, thank you. A barren country hereabouts, Mr. ——”
“(Monjoy).... Barren? So-so. Yes, the hills are barren, and breed a rough homely folk. Our staple is cloth, as you see. I see you are looking at the stains on my old coat. You are right; they are of acid. I am no clothier myself; I am a seal-engraver.—What was I saying? Ah, our cloth! Our cloth goes far afield, much to Liverpool; and in return the good folk of Liverpool press on us a certain number of these metal pieces, the possession of which is vulgarly supposed to constitute wealth. But we know better than that, you and I—eh, Cope? ‘Fill me with your corn and I’ll cover you with my cloth; a third shall build us roof and hearth’—that’s the true wealth, the commonwealth, eh?—But your pardon. I carry my coals to Newcastle—that is to say, my cloth to Horwick.”
“Hn! hn! hn! You are a very pleasant gentleman, Mr. Monjoy.... I should say, now, that a great variety of saxifrages is to be found on your hills?”
“Best let the hills alone; these gentlemen at the pieceboards are not always in a merry humour. Come and see the market.”
As Monjoy passed up the square with the supervisor, talking pleasantly, and explaining that save for the cloth-staple the district would be a wilderness, cachinnations, as if at some hidden jest, passed along the pieceboards. For all the bell had rung, not a man had unstrapped his budget. Big Monjoy pointed out this feature, or that man—goîtred John Raikes, dusty with the earth of the fulling-mill; Mish, with the brindled dog squatting under the pieceboard beneath him; the pack-road winding up the Shelf to the Causeway, and so forth. And every now and then the weavers seemed to see the ludicrous figure afresh and to break into fresh chuckles.
Matthew Moon drew James Eastwood, the Wadsworth flockmaster, aside under the pillars of the Piece Hall, and took him by the sleeve.