'Gently, gently,' said Bolt. 'Tha was i' the right, Potters, not to name names, but when it comes to namin' o' names I asks tha where's tha proof?' Here there was a general 'movement of adhesion,' and an assenting murmur ran round, while the mild man repeated like an echo, 'Where's your proof?' 'Her father don't think ther's proof,' said Sigley. 'A man doesn't want to prove the bread out of his mouth, and the roof off his children.' 'John Hatfield wouldn't work for a man as had ruined his girl.' 'Hungry dogs eat dirty pudding,' remarked Potters. 'Hatfield does na' deal o' thee, Potters,' observed Murdoch, drily. 'And it would be just one if he did,' answered Potters, his large face growing crimson, 'and Alice was a good lass and a sweet lass till she took up wi' fine notions and told a' the lads as none on 'em was good enough to tie her shoon, and as she'd be a lady, and I don't know what all, and Mr Roland was the only gentleman as ever took any notice of her, except Mr Richard; and Mr Roland, he went away when she went away, and it's all as plain as the nose on your face.' 'Tha says too much,' said Murdoch slowly, 'for't a' to be true.' 'Now, now!' interposed Bolt. 'Enow said on all sides, I'm sure. The poor old master's gone, and the mill's got a holiday, and I think you'll all be better employed i' turning your thoughts on him as is gone than i' picking holes i' them as is to be your masters, and raking up yesterday's fires i' this fashion. And so I say, as I said before, I for one am sorry he's gone.' 'Yes; and so am I,' said Bill; 'for as long as he lived I always expected him to do summat for me, as worked alongside o' him when he were a lad i' Carrington's Mills, and now I know _that_ chance is ower.' 'Well, he gave thee work here, and he'd always a kind word for thee.' 'Kind words spread no butties, and when he was rolling in brass, work at the usual wages was a' he ever give me.' 'Did'st thee ever gie him owt, lad?' 'I never had owt to give him, or anyone else for that matter.' A general laugh arose, and Bill buried his face in his mug of beer. 'The next work-day the mill's closed'll be a wedden-day, I s'pose,' said Sigley, after a pause. 'Ay, and not long fust.' 'Mr Roland's always up at Aspinshaw.' 'So's Mr Richard if you come to that.' 'They can't both marry the girl.' 'No, nor I shouldn't think either of them would yet a bit. Miss Clare's only just come home fro' endin' her schoolin'.' 'And a gradely lass she is.' 'Ay, that's so,' cut in old Murdoch. 'She thinks a sight more o' workin'-folk nor either o' they boys do.' 'Where's your proof o' that, Bill?' asked Bolt, the village logician. 'Proof,' snarled Murdoch; 'don't 'ee call to mind two years agone when we had a kind o' strike like, and didn't she go about speakin' up for us like a good un?' A murmur of assent mingled with the gurgling of liquor down half-a-dozen throats.