Cleaver's boy could do any amount of this kind of thing. He modelled himself upon the popular broadsheet of the day. But it was not popular in the Sooth Back. The article in demand there was a song about a little child who softly faded away after bidding farewell—a long farewell, to all his friends so dear—in a verse apiece. Like King Charles, this boy was quite an unconscionable time a-dying. But he did not know it. He was a popular boy in the Sooth Back, and Tam Luke warbled about him till the assembled Knuckle Dusters snivelled secretly, and looked hard down between their knees so as to pretend they were spitting on the floor. But Cleaver's boy, who in early youth had come from Blackburn with his father, the slaughterman, said it was "Bully-rot!" He swore that he could make a song about Sal Mackay that would be worth a shopful of such "tripe." The verse quoted above is part of the song he made. Cleaver's boy has repeated the whole poem to me more than once, but the above is all that I can bring myself to print. For Sal Mackay has able-bodied relatives, and, besides, there is a law of libel in this country, which is provided for in my agreement with my publishers. Sal Mackay and Susy Murphy were rivals in the affections of the handsome "boy" of Cleaver the butcher. But for long the swain was coy and gave no final evidence of preference. So that day by day in the factory where they worked side by side, neither could exult over the other. "Ye needna think he cares a buckie for you, ye tow-headed, crawlin' ferlie!" said Sue, who was of the dark allure, to Sal who was fair. "He wadna look the road ye are on, ye ill-grown, cankered-faced, jaundice hospital!" was the retort elegant of Sal Mackay. So it happened nightly that when Celie Tennant was at the most impressive portions of the Scripture lesson, or engaged in elucidating the mysteries of compound division (and pardonably getting a little tangled among the farthings), that there would come a long whistle at the door, and then a smart rapping at the window. Another blast like a steamer signal was blown before the dark tower, the Knuckle Dusters would throw their heads back to laugh, and then look at Cleaver's boy. He would stand it a little while, and then, to escape from their meaning looks, he would throw down his slate and books and go quietly out at the door. At last Celie plucked up courage to speak to him. "It is not so much that I mind," said Celie, for she had been learning many things since she came down to the Sooth Back, things that she did not mention when she went home to Aurelia Villa, or even repeat to the Junior Partner. "It is not that I mind so much myself," she said, "but it is a very bad example for Cleg and the younger boys." "I ken, I ken, but faith, I canna help it, Miss Celie," said Cleaver's boy, in desperation. "As sure as daith, it is no my faut. Thae twa lasses will juist no let me alane. I canna gang alang the street for them."