"Tha' means it wor th' ale were talking; but tha's mista'en. He meant it every word. An' he said, 'at them 'at lagged behind mun go to th' wall, an' he, for one, meant movin' wi' th' times. Him an' Enoch Taylor's mighty thick, an' Taylor's putting th' new machinery into Bradley Mills, and Vickerman's. All th' market's talkin' on it. Aw called at th' Pack Horse----". "I warrant yo' did," observed my mother. "At th' Pack Horse," proceeded my father, superior to innuendo, "an' Horsfall wor there, an' he said 'at th' era o' manual labour wor over, an' th' triumph o' mechanic art had come. These were his very words. Aw thowt aw'd remember them to tell, yo'." "An' little aw thank yo' for yo'r trouble, William Bamforth," observed my mother, "for that nor any other o' your fine tales from th' Pack Horse. Little it seems yo', or Horsfall either, dandering about th' Pack Horse after th' market's done, an' me toiling my blood to water to make both ends tie. Th' triumph o' mechanic art, indeed! Triumph o' fiddlesticks. Th' hand-loom's done well enough for thee, an' for thi father afore thee, an' where would you put yo' new machines if yo' got 'em, I'd like to know." "Ther's that bit o' money lying idle at Ingham's, an' we could build on th' Intack, an' ther's a fine run o' water, as Horsfall says it's a sin an' a shame to see running to waste, an' ther's that fortune of your Aunt Betty's, at's out at mortgage wi' Lawyer Blackburn." "Aye, an' there it 'll stop for me," cried my mother, "let well alone, says I. Wasn't tha tellin' me only th' other neet' o' that poor man at Nottingham, 'at our Ben couldn't sleep o' neets for seein' him starin' 'at him? Dost tha want bringing home on a shutter, an' me lonely enough as it is, what wi' thee an' Ben settin' off nearly every week, an' when yo'r back stopping at th' Pack Horse every Tuesday till it's a wonder a decent man an' a deacon isn't ashamed to be seen coming up th' broo. I'll ha' na building wi' my brass. There's enough to follow as it is, an' that girl, Martha, that soft as she thinks every man as says 'It's a fine day,' means puttin' t' spurrins in, and na, nowt 'll do but havin' th' masons and th' joiners all ovver th' place, an' them so fond o' drink too. Aw'm moithered to death as it is, an' 'll ha' none on't, so tha' may put that maggot aat o' thi yed, William Bamforth." "But Mr. Chew says".... Now Mr. Chew was our new vicar, Mr. Wilson being not long dead. "Oh, Mr. Chew. It 'ad seem him better if he washed th' powder out o' his own yed i'stead o' puttin' stuff an' nonsense into other folks!" "If yo mun talk your own business ovver wi' all th' countryside why can't you go to Mr. Webster, as is well known to ha' more o' th' root o' th' matter in him than all th' clergy, an him a weaver hissen, too." "Why, and so I will," exclaimed my father, rising to wind up the clock, a solemn act that, in our house, served, except on Sundays, instead of family prayers, and sent us all to bed.