"There's a deal o' sufferin' about these parts, Ben. More nor yo' think on. Yo' happen think 'at because th' lads about are after th' hounds an' have a bit to spend on drink 'at they're better off nor they are. But yo' see I'm more about nor yo' an' more intimate like. Folk is sellin' their bits o' stuff quiet like. Mony a decent woman 'at wouldn't have it known has sent me wi' 'owd keepsakes an' heirlooms like to th' silversmith i' Huddersfelt an' Owdham. They put a brave face on it an' talk little, but aw know there's scores o' fam'lies i' this valley and on these hill sides, 'at's welly clammin'! It isn't them as goes 'afore the overseers 'at's the worst off. There's scores an' scores livin' on the town 'at go reg'lar every week for th' town 'lowance. They'n got th' length o' th' ovverseer's foot, an' its not for the like o' me to blame 'em." "Crows shouldn't pike crows' 'een, eh Jack?" I put in. "Th' ovverseer's fair game," continued Jack, unmoved. "But he's a fool for all his stuck up ways. Aw tell yo' 'at there's hundreds awmost sucking their finger ends, like bears do their paws, 'at winnot go on to th' parish. An' mark yo', th' poor ha' borne wi' slack work an' mullocked on as best they could, as long as they thought th' wars and bad harvests were to blame. An' they've bided in hope, for harvests winnot all be bad, an' we'st beat the little Corporal yet. But now th' mesters are for makin' bad worse wi' this new machinery. They're crying 'Every man for hissen an' devil take the hindmost.' They're bringing wood and iron to do the work of willing hands and arms, an', by gow, the lads about won't see their craft ruined, an' them an' theirs pined to death, wi'out a blow struck. Aw tell yo', Ben, there's mischief brewin', or my name's not Soldier Jack; an' if yo' want to know more, yo' mun ask yon mettlesome cousin o' yours, Judd Mellor, o' th' Brigg."-- "What! George Mellor?" I cried; "why, what has he to do with it?" For such an ending to the soldier's tale I never thought nor dreamed of. "I've said my say, Ben, and yo'll get no more out o' me. It's no use pumpin' at a dry well tha' knows. So aw'll say good neet, an' my duty to thi father an' mother." And resisting my entreaty that he would go onwards to our house and take pot luck at supper, Jack wheeled off into the dark, and I heard his stride, firm and martial still, despite the gamey leg, as he made across a footpath to the left, and his voice humming a stave of Lillibulero. CHAPTER III.