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"'Throp, shoo said, 'we'll noan be through wi t' wark by midneet. "'Then we sal hae to give ower, said Throp. 'It'll be Sunday morn i' a quairter of an hour, an' I'm noan baan to work o' Sunday. "When Throp's wife heerd that shoo burst out a-roarin'. 'I'm an idle good-for-nowt, shoo said. 'Eh! but I mun finish t' bag; I mun, I mun.
Now I had always been curious to know who Throp's wife was, and wherein her "thrangness" consisted, and what might be Throp's view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no light upon the problem, and it seemed as though Throp's wife were going to prove as intangible as Mrs Harris.
I struck across country for the Calder Valley, but neither at Elland, which calls itself Yelland, nor at Halifax, which is said to be the pleasantest place in England to be hanged in, could I obtain any clue as to the lady's identity. "Thrang as Throp's wife" was everywhere a household phrase, but that was all. I was beginning to grow weary; besides, I wanted my pipe.
That's what t' blue-bottles had bin sayin' to her all t' time, an' all for nowt. Nay, t'owd devil were a sly 'un, an' knew more about Throp's wife nor all t' blue-bottles i' t' world. So he says to her: 'Keziah' they called her Keziah after her grandmother 'thou's t' idlest dawkin' i' Cohen-eead. When arta baan to get agate o' workin'?"
But I am not the man to be put off by feminine elusiveness, so I made a vow that I would give up smoking until I had found Throp's wife and made her mine. My summer holiday was coming on, and I decided that, instead of spending the week in Scarborough, I would make a tour through the towns and villages of the West Riding in search of Throp's wife.
Fired with new enthusiasm, I shouted the name of Throp's wife to the everlasting hills, and the everlasting hills gave back the slogan in reverberating echoes "Throp's wahfe." By midday I had reached the summit of Stanbury Moor, and the question was whether I should descend the populous Worth Valley to Keighley or strike northwards across the hills.
'Fowks san't say "Thrang as Throp's wife" for nowt, shoo said, and shoo gat up off t' stooil, sided away t' spinnin'-wheel, an' stalked off to bed wi' Throp at her heels. Eh! mon, but 'twere a false sort o' pride were yon." "Did people find out about putting the clock back?" I asked. "Nay, 'twere worse nor that," Timothy replied.
I first of all turned my steps in the direction of Pudsey, for I knew that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls. To my delight I found that Pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the lady. "Throp's wife," said Pudsey; "ay, iverybody has heerd tell abaat Throp's wife. Thrang as Throp's wife is what fowks allus say."
"Well, as I were sayin'," he continued, "t' devil kept tellin' her that shoo mun be reight thrang, an' not waste time clashin' with her neighbours; an' when he thowt he'd said enough he crawled down off t' bed an out o' house and away back to wheer he com frae. "Next mornin' Throp's wife wakkened up at t' usual time an' crept out o' bed.
Such was Timothy Barraclough's story of Throp's wife and of the terrible fate which befell her and her husband. I spent the night at the inn, and next morning made further inquiries into the matter.
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