"Where's th' key o' th' mill door," went on George, as cool as if he were eating his dinner. "Oh! dear, oh! dear, you surely winnot harm th' frame's. They'n cost me a hundred and fifty pound apiece, an' I owe to th' bank for 'em yet." "The key, the key." Then from a drawer in the dresser he drew the big, heavy key. "No. 22, 23, 25. Do your duty." And John Walker, Thorpe and Bill Smith stalked across the mill yard with a lantern. The dog sprung at his chain again, poor animal. There was the creaking of the lock. Then after a pause a voice from the dark sounded: "Stand clear, Bill," and bang, came the hammer, crash went wood and iron, and the costly frames were wrecked beyond repair. Poor Mr. S-- groaned as if his heart were breaking, and his wife at the stair head gave a shriek every time the hammer fell. "And now," said George, producing a horse-pistol, "but one thing remains. Here is a Bible. You must swear never to make complaint of what has been said or done this night, lest worse befall you." "Oh, yes, Mr. Ludd, I'll swear. I'll swear anything only go leave us. Oh! my poor frame's! And if I don't die of rheumatism after this night, it'll be a miracle." "And to take back the men you have sacked?" "Yes, yes." "And never more to put up machines to take the bread out of honest men's mouths?" "Never, never, so help me God. Oh! do go, good Mr. Ludd." And go we did; but not before George had very politely gone to the foot of the stairs and drunk out of the pitcher to Mrs. S----'s health, and said how sorry he was that business had compelled him to pay his respects to so worthy a lady so late at night. Then we hurried off, over the fields, into Gledholt Wood, where we took off our masks, and went by different ways to the Nag's Head. Now could you believe that the very next Market Day I saw Mr. S---- at the market dinner. He was telling to a group of listeners how he had been roused in the night by the crash of machines, how he had jumped out of bed, seized his flint lock carbine, rushed down the steps into the mill yard, laid low one of the gang with the stock of his weapon, being anxious to avoid bloodshed, and the whole thirty or forty had fled before him carrying off their wounded, but not alas! till his machines had been broken. It must have been some other night. But Mr. S---- kept his promise. He put up no more frames, even when the troubled times were half forgotten and the Luddites no more a terror. Perhaps he had difficulties with the bank. But that is ahead of my tale, for I have not done yet with the night we broke the poor man's frames. Going down from Marsh to the foot of Paddock, Ben Walker must need fasten himself on to me, though with half an eye he might have seen, even in the dark, that I wanted none of his company. But he linked his arm in mine, and put on that fawning way of his that fair made my flesh creep. "And how's thi father, Ben, and yor good mother an' all the friends at Holme?"