The Adventures of Tom Leigh (8 page)

Mrs. Firth could not but be flattered by all this, and pleased, because at her father's they wove broadcloths; and Mr. Firth seemed to be coming gradually round to the idea.

“After all, why keep an apprentice and make no use of him?” urged Jeremy.

“True. Dost think tha could do it, Tom?” said Mr. Firth, who was apt to become more Yorkshire in his speech when he was out of his wife's hearing.

“He has done it for his father many a time, isn't that so, Tom?” said Jeremy smoothly.

“Why, yes,” said I.

The point of this lies in the different widths of the two cloths. With a narrow kersey, the weaver sitting before the loom can slide the shuttle, which is pointed at both ends, through the threads with his right hand, and then slide it back the other way with his left hand. But a broadcloth is too wide for one man to reach both sides, so an apprentice sits at one side of the loom and throws the shuttle at that side, to help the weaver.

“We'll try it. Set a broadcloth up soon's this kersey's finished, Jeremy,” said Mr. Firth.

It was promotion for me to be allowed to have anything to do with the weaving, and in a way I felt glad, but somehow the pleased gleam in Jeremy's eyes made me uneasy.

It was in the night before the broadcloth was to be begun—Jeremy had done the warping and looming-up very neatly and skilfully, that day—when I suddenly started awake with a pang of terror. It seemed to me that all of a sudden I saw the true reason for Jeremy's insistence on the broadcloth. I told myself my thought was a coward's thought and I should feel shame for it, but I could not get it out of my head. I could hear voices from the housebody below, so Mr. and Mrs. Firth were still downstairs, and after some tossing and turning I suddenly took my resolution and rose up and drew on my shirt and breeches and went downstairs.

Mrs. Firth was rolling up her knitting, Mr. Firth stood in the open doorway, looking out at the night, which was moonlight and very fine.

“Why, Tom!” said he. “What's up, lad?”

“Mr. Firth,” I said in a rush. “I am afraid to weave at the broadcloth with Jeremy.”

“Afraid? Nay, Tom!”

“I knew a lad in Lavenham, an apprentice, that was blinded by a shuttle, weaving so; he was not quite quick enough, he did not catch the shuttle, it flew into his eyes. Mr. Firth, Jeremy does not like me. I am ashamed to say it, but I am afraid.”

“Well,” said Mr. Firth. His face hardened; he stood very still. Mrs. Firth had come up behind us and was leaning against the door jamb. They exchanged a glance. “Tha did right to speak to me, Tom,” said Mr. Firth. “Tha's no need to fear.”

Next morning, when Jeremy had put a spindle of yarn into a shuttle and was just “kissing the shuttle”, as weavers say, to draw the thread through the hole, ready to begin weaving the broadcloth, Mr. Firth came into the workshop.

“Now, Jeremy,” he said. “Just beginning broadcloth, eh?”

“That's right,” said Jeremy smugly.

“Sithee, Jeremy,” said Mr. Firth—this is a Yorkshire expression meaning
see thee
, that is,
look
—“sithee, if any harm comes to this lad Tom through t'broadcloth, or in any other way, i' my house, I shall hold thee guilty.”

Jeremy started and his sallow face flushed.

“That's not fair, master!” he cried.

“Happen not,” said Mr. Firth. “But I mean it, Jeremy. I'll take thee to th'assizes if any harm happens Tom. So think on and watch out.”

I came to no harm over the broadcloth.

It was now summer. The heather on the moors came into bloom, so that when I went out one Sunday afternoon with Harry, as had become our habit, I was amazed by the great stretches of purple which rolled away on every hand. The cotton grass was out too, clustering in the moorland hollows, the white silky heads dancing in the wind on their slender stems; the green bracken on the middle slopes was almost head-high.

For there was plenty of wind and rain; it was a poor, cold summer. This vexed Mr. Firth, for the season had so far been good and the oats and hay were both well advanced and ready for harvest. However, he and Josiah at length mowed the hay and carried it into the barn, with Mrs. Firth and me and even little Gracie helping to turn and fork it. Jeremy would not lift a hand to help; he said he was a journeyman weaver and had naught (“nowt”, as he said) to do with crops. Mr. Firth was put-out by this at first, but was glad enough that there was a piece ready for him to take to market on Saturday. He got a good price for it too, for it seemed all clothiers were busy harvesting so there was a scarcity of cloth for sale. Presently he and Josiah harvested the oats together; what with helping in these works and spreading lime on the fields, for some three weeks I was out of doors all day, and what was even better, away from Jeremy; so I grew quite tanned and cheerful.

Then we began to thresh the oats on the threshing floor beside the barn, and it was here that the accident happened which made me so wretched.

It was a cold, gusty morning, and, though still August, the summit of the highest hills around had a thin covering of snow. Mr. Firth and Josiah and myself were all threshing, that is, banging a flail down on the oats to separate the grain from the husk, so that the wind could blow the light husks away. It is warm work, and in spite of the cold wind I had left my jacket in the house and rolled up my shirt sleeves. Josiah and Mr. Firth were exchanging reminiscences about harvests when Mr. Firth was a boy—Josiah, it seemed, had been apprenticed in those long-ago times to Mr. Firth's father. I was swinging the flail with a will when suddenly with a sharp crack something hit the tip of my elbow. I gave a yelp of pain, for of all places in the body the tip of the elbow is the most sensitive to a blow; my arm went numb, and the flail flew out of my hand. I was bent over double, rubbing my arm and exclaiming at the pain, when I heard a roar from Mr. Firth, who was hopping about and then clinging to the side of the barn, his face distorted with pain and rage; my flail had flown through the air and come down heavily on his foot. Josiah and I both ran to him and held him up, for he could not put his foot to the ground.

“I am sorry, master,” I cried. “Something hit my elbow.”

“Dang thee for a daft clumsy blockhead!” he shouted. “Wherever tha goes, summat goes wrong!”

He struck at me with the back of his fist, and the blow fell on my cheek.

“You'd best carry me to the house,” he said. “I can do no more here.”

Josiah and I crossed hands beneath him and he put his arms round our shoulders, and so we carried him, roaring and swearing. In the yard we met Jeremy, whose look of consternation gave me a grim pleasure; he had not meant to hurt Mr. Firth, I judged, when he threw the stone at me.

We seated Mr. Firth in his armchair by the fire and Mrs. Firth ran to him and pulled off his shoe and stocking; she felt his foot with some skill, and said she thought that though
it was severely bruised, no bones were broken. But Mr. Firth did not believe her.

“Josiah, be off down the valley and fetch me the surgeon,” he said.

“Shall I go, master?” I suggested timidly.

“No! You'd get lost or bring me the blacksmith,” snorted Mr. Firth. “Ill luck attends owt you do.”

Josiah set off, and I went back to the threshing floor.

I own I felt very wretched and also resentful. There on the ground lay the stone which had made me loose the flail; a nasty sharp-pointed piece of millstone grit, as they call the very hard stone round here. That Jeremy had thrown it I did not doubt. I was grieved and troubled over Mr. Firth's foot. But although I knew his quick fiery temper, and knew too that his first angry responses were often belied by his second more kindly thoughts, I could not help resenting his blow. It was not so much the pain of it, though my cheek stung; it was the indignity. There is something about a blow which insults a man. A boy feels insult as much as a man, I thought; more perhaps. It is wrong for a man to strike an apprentice, who has not the right to strike back. Besides, it was not true that things went wrong wherever I was; what had gone wrong since I came to Upper High Royd? All those tales of Jeremy's, of me mislaying tools and so on, came to my mind, and it struck me for the first time that Mr. Firth had believed them. But even so, a blow! So I went on, turning the thing over and over in my mind, my resentment continually growing.

Presently the surgeon, as I supposed, came riding up the lane, clutching his hat in a sudden gusty shower of hail; shortly after he left again, and then Gracie came running out to me, with some bread and cheese for me in her hand.

“Father's foot is not broken, only badly bruised and swollen,” she said.

“I am very glad of it,” I said in a sulky tone.

“But stay out of his sight, Tom, till he has recovered his temper and forgotten your carelessness,” she said.

“It was not my carelessness,” I said angrily. “A stone hit my elbow and numbed my arm. Here is the stone. Who threw it you may guess if you wish.”

Gracie said nothing, but stood weighing the stone in her hand thoughtfully. Then all of a sudden she ran off towards the house, carrying the stone with her.

I had finished my bread and cheese and was hard at work again—for I determined not to be accused of neglecting my duty—when I heard a sound of jingling bits and horses' hoofs, and then the barking of a small dog. I looked up, and saw a company of five coming up the lane on horseback, two of them by their dress servants, the leader holding within the breast of his coat a small young spaniel dog, which was yapping at Sandy, who lay along the top of the tentercroft wall in the sheltered corner, with his paws tucked in, half asleep. I was astonished by so much company in this remote place, the more so as none of them had faces which I knew. Sandy awoke and looked at them wearily, ready to be off if the dog struggled free, but his master held him firmly and ruffling his head bade him be quiet.

“Now, my boy,” said this man in a friendly tone to me: “Tell me, if you please, are we in the right way for Halifax?”

“You are hardly in the right way for anywhere up here, sir,” said I. “Halifax lies over there.” I pointed.

“Kindly direct me to the right way, then,” said he.

He spoke so pleasantly, with such easy assurance and cheerful friendliness, that I quite took a fancy to him. Though rather slight and spare in build, with a brown complexion and a large mole at the left side of his mouth, he somehow dominated his companions; and this was because of some quality in himself rather than owing to his full-bottomed wig and his good dark grey suit, though this went well with his keen grey eyes.

“I would not presume to do so, sir,” I said, hesitating. “But if you would come into the house, Mr. Firth could tell you.”

“What! Live within sight of a town and not know the way to it?” said one of the other men, laughing.

“The boy is a stranger to the place; can't you hear he does not speak with a north-country voice?”

“Aye, you're right, Mr. Defoe,” said the man who had laughed at me. “As usual. Take us to your master, lad.”

“Where do you come from? Lavenham! I have been in Suffolk. How long have you been in Yorkshire? Why did you come? Are you an apprentice? How long are you bound for? What trade are you learning?”

These and other questions were fired at me by this Mr. Defoe as we passed between the barn and the yard, so that from my stammered answers he had my whole story out of me before we reached the house. I went in and said—for I was still sore about the blow:

“Some gentlemen wish to ask for directions to Halifax.”

Mr. Firth was sitting with his foot, all bandaged, up on a stool; Mrs. Firth was spinning, Gracie was carding, I could hear the sound of the shuttle flying in the loom, upstairs. There was a big blazing coal fire, as usual; but I was somewhat taken aback to see the stone which had struck my elbow lying in the centre of the table.

I marvelled much to see how Mr. Defoe set us all at ease.

“Your servant, sir. Pray pardon this intrusion. Madam, your servant.” He bowed very politely to Mrs. Firth, who looked pleased and fluttered. “We are travelling from Rochdale to Halifax, and have lost our way in these hills of yours. These gentlemen are Rochdale merchants. My name is Daniel Defoe, merchant, of London.”

“London!” said Mr. Firth. “You are a long way from home, sir. Pray be seated. Wife, some ale.”

“You do not know my name?” said Mr. Defoe, laughing pleasantly.

“Why, no—I regret,” stumbled Mr. Firth.

“
Robinson Crusoe
has not yet reached Yorkshire, then. That is hard, seeing I wrote much of it in Halifax,” said Mr. Defoe. “Well! Yorkshire has that pleasure to come.”

“My father has a copy of the book,” said Mrs. Firth in her
genteelest tone—she was delighted to welcome a man from the great world of London.

“Pray give him my compliments, madam, and my hopes that he enjoyed the book. I wrote it,” said Mr. Defoe, laughing pleasantly again, “and I am glad it has been well received. But enough of my affairs. May I enquire what is the sound I hear, above?”

“It's the loom—the shuttle in the loom. My journeyman weaver is busy weaving cloth.”

“Ah. Cotton cloth?”

“No, no!” said Mr. Firth indignantly. “All wool.”

“Are you, then—”

“A clothier? Yes. We've always been clothiers in this house.”

Mr. Defoe went off again into a whirl of questions: how long had Mr. Firth lived at Upper High Royd? His father? His grandfather too? Farmers too? No? Partly farmers, always clothiers? Was it not inconvenient, living so far from a town? What day was Halifax market? How many pieces of cloth did Mr. Firth weave a week? A journeyman weaver too? Where did the coals come from?

“Tom, help your mistress to pour the ale,” said Mr. Firth, rather flustered by all these questions.