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Updated: June 26, 2025
Throp would sam up all t' bits o' fallen wool that he could find, an' Throp's wife would wesh 'em an' card 'em an' spin 'em into yarn, an' then shoo'd knit t' yarn into stockin's an' sell 'em at Keighley an' Colne.
There's no business doin' there'; and he shows him t' slates. So Beelzebub taks t' slates and looks at 'em, an' then he scrats his heead an' he says: 'I can't help it, your Majesty. It's Throp's wife; that's what's wrang wi' Cohen-eead. "'Throp's wife! Throp's wife! says Satan; 'an' who's Throp's wife to set hersen agean me?
Well, that made t'owd devil fair mad, for they ought to hae bin i' t' houses temptin' fowks to sin; so he oppened his cake-hoil, thrast out his forked tongue, an' swallowed three on 'em at one gulp. After that he felt a bit better. When it were turned ten o'clock, he crawled alang t' loans an' bridle-stiles, while he gat to Throp's farm. He sidled under t' door and into t' kitchen.
But the Heavy Woollen District was far too thrang itself to take interest in anybody else's thrangness; it knew nothing about quests or emblems, cared little about Throp's wife, and less about me. So I commended the Heavy Woollens to the tender mercies of the excess profits taxers and sped on my way.
At first he remained silent, but after a few moments his blue eyes began to twinkle like stars in the firmament, and then, slapping his knees with both hands, he broke into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. "Ay, ay," he said, "I know all about Throp's wife. Shoo lived at Cohen-eead, an' my mother telled me t' tale when I were nobbut a barn."
An' all t' time shoo called hersen an idle dollops 'cause shoo weren't workin' hard enough. That were t' devil's game. But for all shoo tewed so hard, there was a gey bit o' wool left i' t' bag when ten o'clock com and 'twere time to get to bed. You see, 'twere bad wool; 'twere all feltered an' teed i' knots. But Throp's wife were noan baan to bed while shoo'd finished t' bag.
They went all ower t' house, but they could see nowt o' Throp nor o' Throp's wife, nor o' Throp's wife's chintz-cat that shoo called Nimrod, nor yet o' Throp's parrot that he'd taught to whistle Pop goes t' Weazel. They lated 'em ower t' moors an' along t' beck boddom, but 'twere all for nowt, an' nobody i' Cohen-eead iver set een on 'em again."
So just to please her, he gat up on to t' stooil an' put back t' hands o' t' clock twenty minutes. An' t' clock gave a despert gert groan; 'twere summat atween a groan an' a sweer, an' it went straight to Throp's heart, an' he wished he'd niver melled wi' t' clock.
"Yes, yes," I replied; "but what I want to know is who Throp's wife really was." "Why," answered Pudsey, "shoo'll happen hae bin t' wife o' a chap they called Throp." Now that was just the answer I might have expected from Pudsey, and I decided to waste no more time there. So I made for the Heavy Woollen District capital letters, if you please, Mr Printer and straightway put my question.
Ay, an' t' women fowks gat their chaps to join i' t' wark; there were no settin' off for t' public of a neet, an' no threapin' or fratchin' at t' call-hoils. It was wark, wark, wark, through morn to neet, an' all on account o' Throp's wife an' her spinnin'-wheel. "Well, after a time Cohen-eead had getten that sober an' hard-workin', t'owd devil began to grow a bit unaisy.
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