“I don’t know how it is,” she continued, wiping her eyes with her apron, “I can’t a-bear to see a man cry. It always upsets me. My husband ain’t done it above once or twice in his life, and, Lord, I’d sooner a cried myself all night long. Good-bye, my dear, good-bye, good-bye; God bless you! It will all come right.”
In another minute Zachariah was out of doors. It was dark, and getting late. The cold air revived him but he could not for some time come to any determination as to what he ought to do next. He was not well acquainted with the country round Manchester, and he could not decide to what point of the compass it would be safest to bend his steps. At last he remembered that at any rate he must escape from the town boundaries, and get a night’s lodging somewhere outside them. With the morning some light would possibly dawn upon him.
Pauline’s warning was well-timed, for the constables made a descent upon Caillaud’s lodgings as soon as they got him into jail, and thence proceeded to Coleman’s. They insisted on a search, and Mrs. Carter gave them a bit of her mind, for they went into every room of the house, and even into Mrs. Coleman’s bedroom.
“I’ll tell you what it is, Mr. Nadin,” she said, turning towards the notorious chief constable, “if God A’mighty had to settle who was to be hung in Manchester, it wouldn’t be any of them poor Blanketeers. Wouldn’t you like to strip the clothes off the bed? That would be just in your line.”
“Hold your damned tongue!” quoth Mr. Nadin; but, nevertheless, seeing his men grinning and a little ashamed of themselves, he ordered them back.
Meanwhile Zachariah pursued his way north-westward unchallenged, and at last came to a roadside inn, which he thought looked safe. He walked in, and found half a dozen decent-looking men sitting round a fire and smoking. One of them was a parson, and another was one of the parish overseers. It was about half-past ten, and they were not merry, but a trifle boozy and stupid. Zachariah called for a pint of beer and some bread and cheese, and asked if he could have a bed. The man who served him didn’t know; but would go and see. Presently the overseer was beckoned out of the room, and the man came back again and informed Zachariah that there was no bed for him, and that he had better make haste with his supper, as the house would close at eleven. In a minute or two the door opened again, and a poor, emaciated weaver entered and asked the overseer for some help. His wife, he said, was down with the fever; he had no work; he had had no victuals all day, and he and his family were starving. He was evidently known to the company.
“Ah,” said the overseer, “no work, and the fever and starving; that’s what they always say. I’ll bet a sovereign you’ve been after them Blanketeers.”
“It’s a judgment on you,” observed the parson. “You and your like go setting class against class; you never come near the church, and then you wonder God Almighty punishes you.”
“You can come on your knees to us when it suits you, and you’d burn my rick to-morrow,” said a third.
“There’s a lot of fever amongst ’em down my way,” said another, whose voice was rather thick, “and a damned lot of expense they are, too, for physic and funerals. It’s my belief that they catch it out of spite.”