A LANCASHIRE DAISY
One of the giant police-constables on duty outside the Cotton Hall, Smutchester, upon the occasion of the Conference of the National Union for the Emancipation of Women Workers, was seized with the spirit of prophecy when he saw Sal o’ Peg’s borne in, gesticulating, declaiming, carried head and shoulders above an insurging wave of beshawled and rampant factory-girls.
“Theeaw goes th’ Stormy Pettrill, Tum!” he roared to a fellow guardian of the public peace. “Neeaw us be sewer to ha’ trooble wi’ theeay——” He did not add “tykes.”
“Thee mun be misteeawken, mon,” urged Tum, who had newly joined the Smutchester City Division. “’Tis boh a lil’ feer-feaced gell aw cud braak between ma finger an’ thoomb lig a staalk o’ celery.” The great blue eyes of the “lil’ feer-feaced gell” had done execution, it was plain, and the first speaker, who was a married man, snorted contemptuously. Sal o’ Peg’s had completely earned the disturbing nickname bestowed on her. The courts and alleys of the roaring black city would vomit angry, white-gilled, heavy-shod men and women at one shrill, summoning screech of hers. The police-constable upon whose features she had more recently executed a clog war-dance was not yet discharged from the Infirmary, though the seventeen years and fragile proportions of his assailant had, for the twentieth time, softened “th’ Beawk” into letting Sal o’ Peg’s off with the option of a fortnight or a fine, and the threat of being bound over to keep the peace next time, if she insisted in being “so naughty.”
With these blushing honors thick upon her, Sal o’ Peg’s attended the Conference, and became, before the close of the presidential address, an ardent convert to the cause of Female Suffrage. During the debate she climbed a pillar and addressed the meeting, and when, with immense difficulty, dislodged from her post of vantage, she took the platform by storm.
“Why, it’s a child!” chorused the delegates from the different branches of the Union, whose ramifications extend over the civilized globe, as the small, slim, light-haired young person in the inevitable shawl, print gown, and clogs climbed over the brass platform-rail, and, folding cotton-blouse-clad arms upon a flat, girlish bosom, stood motionless, composed, even cheerful, in the full glare of the electric chandelier, and under the full play of a battery of some two thousand feminine eyes.
“Do let the little darling speak,” begged the Honorary Secretary of the Chairwoman, who, as a native of Smutchester, had her doubts. But Sal o’ Peg’s had not the faintest intention of waiting for permission.
“Ah’m not bit o’ good at long words, gells,” said Sal o’ Peg’s. “Mappen ah’ll be better ondersteawd wi’oot ’em.”
The thunder of clogs in the body of the hall said “Yes!” She went on: “Wimmin sheawd ha’ th’ Vote. ’Tis theear roight.” (Tremendous clogging, mingled with shrieks of “Weel seayd, lass! Gie us th’ Vote!”) She hitched her shawl about her with the factory-girl’s movement of the shoulders, and went on. “Yo’ll noan fleg me wi’ yo’re din. Ah’m boh a lil’ un, boh af ha’ got spunk. If you doubt thot——” A hundred strident voices from the body of the hall sent back the refrain, “Ask a pleeceman!” A roar of laughter shook the roof.
“Ought we to interfere?” whispered the Honorary Secretary.