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Updated: May 10, 2025
"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick." "Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."
"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information coming from the Colonel. "Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name." "Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.
There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how to keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his hammer on the anvil.
"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts on t' envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A." "Thou's sure it's 'B.A., and not 'A.B.," said Stackhouse. "I've a nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'A.B., meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a limb."
As a matter of fact, he had never understood women at all, his relations being confined to those sad immoralities of the cheapest character which only money grudgingly given, at that could buy. He lived in three small rooms in West Harrison Street, near Throup, where he cooked his own meals at times.
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