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Updated: May 4, 2025
You should a' heard what Mat could do with this 'ere instrument. What do you say, Mrs. Bower, ma'am? 'He was a good player, was Mr. Trent; but not better than somebody else we know of, eh, Mr. Hackroyd? 'Now don't you go pervertin' my judgment with flattery, ma'am, said the old man, looking pleased for all that. 'Matthew Trent was Matthew Trent, an' Lambeth 'll never know another like him.
Often hard set to earn the few shillings a week that sufficed to him, he kept up a long-standing reputation for joviality, and, with the aid of his fiddle, made himself welcome at many a festive gathering in Lambeth. 'Give Mr. Hackroyd a cup o' tea, Mary, said Mrs. Bower. 'How you pore men go about your work days like this is more than I can understand.
Hackroyd! she exclaimed; 'it's like a breath o' fresh air to look at you, I'm sure. If this kind o' weather goes on there won't be much left o' me. I'm a-goin' like the butter. 'It's warmish, that's true, said Luke, when she had finished her laugh. 'I heard Mr. Boddy playing in there, and I've got a message for him. 'Come in and sit down.
Things wasn't doing so bad with me. Why, it's like yesterday to remember. My wife she come a-runnin' into the shop just before dinner-time. "There's a boiler busted at Walton's," she says, "an' they say as Mr. Trent's killed." It was Walton's, the pump-maker's, in Ground Street. 'It's Simpson & Thomas's now, remarked Mrs. Bower. 'Why, where Jim Candle works, you know, Mr. Hackroyd.
Her hair was cut short and crisped itself above her neck; her hat of black straw and dark dress were those of a work-girl poor, yet, in their lack of adornment, suiting well with the active, helpful impression which her look produced. 'Here's Mary an' Mr. Hackroyd fallin' out again, Lydia, said Mrs. Bower. 'What about now? Lydia asked, coming in and seating herself.
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