And Jabez Tinker dismounted, threw the reins to Buckley, who stood surlily by, waiting the upshot of his complaint, and walked without another word to the office. But he had sighed as he watched Tom's upright, sinewy figure cross the mill yard, and a lingering, longing look followed the unwitting 'prentice. CHAPTER VII. TIME passed, as it will pass even in Holmfirth. Tom is still an apprentice, but in no fear of stick or strap from Sam Buckley, or any other Sam. The first Factory Act has become law, Ben Garside had a grievance the less, though when the night drew long it was still delight fighting his battles o'er again, to tell the oft-told tale of that famous march to York, when from Huddersfield, and all the parts contiguous, men, women, and little children made their weary way to York, to cry aloud that the iron-heel of capital might not crush out the infant life of the nation's self. Ben's limbs are stiffer by many a year since that historic tramp, but he straightens them and erect with flashing eye, as he dwells upon the heroic patience, the grim resolve of those who trod the long, long miles, and tells how weary men stayed with their arms the feeble, halting steps of bent and grey-headed sires, and worn and foot-sore women carried in their arms drooping children, not their own; how the rain fell in torrents, and the wind beat the cold showers in upon their drenched garments and many stole behind the hawthorn hedges, and the gray low stone walls, and slept the sleep of an exhaustion that was well nigh unto death; of how, as they came by some kindly waggoner, carting sacks of corn, or bales of wool, or barrels of good ale, the women and the children were taken up and given a sore-needed lift; how, as they passed through village and hamlet, hard-featured men and homely women came running into the road, and pressed upon them meat and drink, and wished them God-speed, and a safe return; of how when they reached the Castle yard in York itself, the clogs of many were clotted with the blood of their bruised and lacerated feet, and last, of how when their hearts were sick with hope deferred, the glad hour of triumph came, and the groans of the workers pierced the ears of Parliament, and the joy-bells rang to herald in the great Charter of the Toiler's freedom. But Tom had that to protect him which was better fashioned than any statute ever made, incomprehensible by amplitude of words. Now, in his nineteenth year, he is nearing the six feet of manhood, and his frame is well knit and strong. Simple fare has agreed with him, anyway, simple, fare and simple, cleanly ways. He is the delight of Hannah Garside's eyes, and of eyes, too, younger and brighter than hers, though the winsome mill-hands of the valley declare that Tom Pinder is as dateless as a stone. "It's time wasted on him," they say, "he thinks o' nowt but his books an' his wark, an' maybe o' that poor ill-shaped Lucy Garsed."