These words were being uttered in a prolonged nasal tone by an old grey- haired man of a rather comical cast of countenance in one of the streets in the outskirts of the town of Bolton. It was about a week after the sad death of Frank Oldfield that we come upon him. Certainly this approach to the town could not be said to be prepossessing. The houses, straggling up the side of a hill, were low and sombre, being built of a greyish stone, which gave them a dull and haggard appearance. Stone was everywhere, giving a cold, comfortless look to the dwellings. Stone- paved roads, stone curbs, stone pathways--except here and there, where coal-dust and clay formed a hard and solid footway, occasionally hollowed out by exceptional wear into puddles which looked like gigantic inkstands. High stone slabs also, standing upright, and clamped together by huge iron bolts, served instead of palings and hedges, and inflicted a melancholy, prison-like look on the whole neighbourhood.

It was up this street that the old knife-grinder was slowly propelling his apparatus, which was fitted to two large light wheels. A very neat and comprehensive apparatus it was. There was the well-poised grindstone, with its fly-wheel attached; a very bright oil-can, and pipe for dropping water on to the stone; various little nooks and compartments for holding tools, rivets, wire, etcetera. Everything was in beautiful order; while a bra.s.s plate, on which was engraved the owner's name, blazed like gold when there was any sunshine to fall upon it. At present the day was drizzling and chilly, while the huge volumes of smoke from a whole forest of factory chimneys tended to impart a deeper shade of dismalness to the dispiriting landscape. The old man himself was plainly a character. No part of his dress seemed as if it could ever have been new, and yet all was in such keeping and harmony that every article in it appeared to have faded to a like degree of decay by a common understanding. Not that the component parts of this dress were such as could well have been contemporaries on their being first launched into the world, for the whole of the old man's personal outward clothing might almost have been mapped off into divisions--each compartment representing a different era, as the zones on a terrestrial globe enclose differing races of plants and animals. Thus, his feet were shod with stout leather shoes, moderately clogged, and fastened, not by the customary clasps, but by an enormous pair of shoe-buckles of a century old at least. His lower limbs were enclosed in leathern garments, which fastened below the knee, leaving visible his grey worsted stockings. An immense waistcoat, the pattern of which was constantly being interrupted by the discordant figuring of a large variety of patches--inserted upside down, or sideways, or crossways, as best suited--hung nearly to his knees; and over this he wore a coat, the age and precise cut of which it would have puzzled the most learned in such things to decide upon. It probably had been two coats once, and possibly three may have contributed to its formation. It was clearly put together for use and not for ornament--as was testified by its extreme length, except in the sleeves, and by the patches of various colours, which stood out upon the back and skirts in startling contrast to the now almost colourless material of the originals. On his head the old man wore a sort of conical cap of felt, which looked as though it had done service more than once on the head of some modern representative of Guy Fawkes of infamous memory. And yet there was nothing beggarly about the appearance of the old knife-grinder. Not a rag disfigured his person. All was whole and neat, though quaint and faded. Altogether, he would have formed an admirable subject for an artist's sketch-book; nor could any stranger pa.s.s him without being struck with pleasure, if he caught a glimpse of his happy face--for clearly there was sunshine there; yet not the full, bright sunshine of the cloudless summer, but the sunshine that gleams through the storm and lights up the rainbow.

"Knives to grind!--scissors to grind!"

The cry went on as the old man toiled along. But just now no one appeared to heed him. The rain kept pattering down, and he seemed inclined to turn out of his path and try another street. Just then a woman's voice shouted out,--

"Ould Crow--Ould Crow! Here, sithee! Just grind me these scissors.

Our Ralph's been sc.r.a.ping the boiler lid with 'em, till they're nearly as blunt as a broom handle."

"Ay, missus, I'll give 'em an edge; but you mustn't let your Ralph have all his own way, or he'll take the edge off your heart afore so long."

The scissors-grinding proceeded briskly, and soon a troop of dirty children were gathered round the wheel, and began to teaze the old man.

"I'll warm thee!" he cried to one of the foremost, half seriously and half in joke.

At last the scissors were finished.

"I'll warm thee, Ould Crow!" shouted out the young urchin, in a mimicking voice, and running up close to him as he was returning to his wheel.

The long arm of the knife-grinder darted forward, and his hand grasped the lad, who struggled hard to get away; and at last, by a desperate effort, freed himself, but, in so doing, caused the old man to lose his balance. It was in vain that he strove to recover himself. The stones were slippery with the wet: he staggered a step or two, and then fell heavily forward on his face. Another moment, and he felt a strong arm raising him up.

"Are you much hurt, old friend?" asked his helper, who was none other than Jacob Poole.

"I don't know--the Lord help me!--I'm afeerd so," replied Old Crow, seating himself on the kerb stone with a groan.

"Those young rascals!" cried Jacob. "I'd just like to give 'em such a hiding as they've ne'er had in all their lives afore."

"Nay, nay, friend," said the other; "it wasn't altogether the lad's fault. But they're a rough lot, for sure; not much respect for an old man. Most on 'em's mayster o' their fathers and mothers afore they can well speak plain. Thank ye kindly for your help; the Lord'll reward ye."

"You're welcome, old gentleman," said Jacob. "Can I do anything more for you?"

"Just lend me your arm for a moment; there's a good lad. I shall have hard work, I fear, to take myself home, let alone the cart."

"Never trouble about that," said Jacob, cheerily. "I'll wheel your cart home, if you can walk on slowly and show me the road."

"Bless you, lad; that'll be gradely help--'a friend in need's a friend indeed.' If you'll stick to the handles, I'll make shift to hobble on by your side. I'm better now."

They turned down a by-street; and after a slow walk of about a quarter of a mile--for the old man was still in considerable pain, and was much shaken--they arrived at a low but not untidy-looking cottage, with a little outbuilding by its side.

"Here we are," said the knife-grinder. "Now come in, my lad. You shall have your tea, and we'll have a chat together arterwards."

Old Crow pulled a key out of his pocket, and opened the house door. The fire was burning all right, and was soon made to burst into a cheerful blaze. Then the old man hobbled round to the shed, and unbolting it from the inside, bade Jacob wheel in the cart. This done, they returned into the kitchen.

"Sit ye down, my lad," said the knife-grinder. "Deborah'll be back directly; the mills is just loosed."

"Is Deborah your daughter?" asked Jacob.

The old man shook his head sorrowfully.

"No; I've never a one belonging me now."

"That's much same with myself," said Jacob. "I've none as belongs me; leastways I cannot find 'em."

"Indeed!" exclaimed the other. "Well, we'll talk more about that just now. Deborah, ye see, is widow Cartwright's wench; and a good wench she is too, as e'er clapped clog on a foot. She comes in each morn, and sees as fire's all right, and fills kettle for my breakfast. Then at noon she comes in again to see as all's right. And after mill's loosed, she just looks in and sets all straight. And then, afore she goes to bed, she comes in, and stretches all up gradely."

"And are you quite alone now?"

"Quite. But I've a better Friend as never leaves me nor forsakes me-- the Lord Jesus Christ. I hope, my lad, you know summat about him."

"Yes; thank the Lord, I do," replied Jacob. "I learned to love him when I was far away in Australia."

"In Australia!" cried the old man. "Deborah'll be glad to hear what you have to say about Australia, for she's a brother there. And how long have you been come back from yon foreign land?"

"Not so very long; but I almost wish as I'd never been."

"And why not?"

"'Cos I shouldn't have knowed one as has caused me heavy sorrow."

Poor Jacob hid his face in his hands, and, spite of himself; the tears _would_ ooze out and trickle through his fingers.

"Come, my lad," said his new friend, compa.s.sionately; "you mustn't fret so. You say you love the Lord; well, he will not leave you comfortless."

"It's the drink, the cursed drink, as done it," said the other, half to himself.

"Well, my lad; and if you _have_ been led astray, and are gradely sorry for it, there's room in the Lord's heart for you still."

"Nay, it isn't that. I'm a total abstainer to the back-bone, and have been for years."

"The Lord be praised!" cried Old Crow, rising from his seat, and grasping the hand of his companion with all his might. "I shall love you twice over now. I'm an old teetotaller myself; and have been these many years. Come, you tell me your tale; and when we've had our tea, I'll tell you mine."

Jacob then told his story, from his first encountering Captain Merryweather at Liverpool, till the time when he lost sight of his young master.

"And now, old friend," he concluded, "I'm just like a ship afloat as don't know which way to steer. I'm fair weary of the sea, an' I don't know what to turn myself to on land."

"Perhaps we may set that right," replied the old man. "But here's Deborah; so we'll just get our tea."

The kitchen in which they were seated was a low but comfortable apartment. There was nothing much in the way of furniture there, but everything was clean and tidy; while the neat little window-curtain, the well-stuffed cushion in the old man's rocking-chair, and the broad warm rug on the hearth, made of countless slips of cloth of various colours dexterously sewn together, showed that loving female hands had been caring for the knife-grinder's comfort. Deborah was a bright, cheery- looking factory-girl, who evidently loved the old man, and worked for him with a will. The tea was soon set out, Deborah joining them by Old Crow's invitation. Jacob had much to tell about Australia which deeply interested both his hearers, especially Deborah. When the tea-things were removed, and Old Crow and Jacob were left alone, the former said,--

"Come; friend Jacob, draw thy chair to the fire. Thou hast given me thy tale, and a sad one it is; now thou shalt hear mine."

They drew closer up on to the hearth, and the old man proceeded with his story.

"I were born and reared in a village many miles from Bolton; it makes no odds where it were, my tale will be all the same. My fayther and mother were G.o.dly people, and taught me to love the Lord by precept and example too. I worked in the pit till I were about twenty; when one day, as my b.u.t.ty and me was getting coal a long way off from the shaft, the prop nearest me began to crack, and I knowed as the roof were falling in. I sung out to him, but it were too late. I'd just time to save myself, when down came a big stone a-top of him, poor lad. I shouted for help, and we worked away with our picks like mad; and by the help of crows we managed to heave off the stone. The poor young man were sadly crushed.

We carried him home as softly as we could; but he were groaning awful all the way. He were a ghastly sight to look on as he lay on his bed; and I'd little hope for him, for he'd been a heavy drinker. I'd talked to him scores of times about it, but he never heeded. He used to say-- 'Well, you're called a sober man, and I'm called a drunkard; but what's the difference? You takes what you like, and I takes what I like. You takes what does you good, and I takes what does me good.' 'No,' says I, 'you takes what does you harm.' 'Ah, but,' says he, 'who's to say just where good ends and harm begins? Tom Roades takes a quart more nor me, and yet he's called to be a sober man; I suppose 'cos he don't fuddle so soon.' Well, but to come back to my poor b.u.t.ty's misfortune. There he lay almost crushed out of all shape, with lots of broken bones. They sends for the doctor, and he says-- 'You must keep him quiet. Nurse him well; and whatever ye do, don't let him touch a drop of beer or spirits till I give ye leave.' Well--would ye believe it?--no sooner were doctor's back turned than they pours some rum down the poor lad's throat, sure as it'd do him good. And so they went on; and the end on it was, they finished him off in a few days, for the poor fellow died mad drunk. Arter that I couldna somehow take to the pit again, and I couldn't have anything more to do with the drink. I said to myself; 'No one shall take encouragement to drink from _you_ any more.' So I joined a Temperance Society, and signed the pledge. I'd saved a little money, and looked about for summat to do. I hadn't larning enough to go into an office as a writer; and I wouldn't have gone if I had, for I should have wasted to skin and bone if I'd sat up all the day on a high stool, scrat, scratting with a pen, and my nose almost growing to the papper.

So I bethowt me as I'd larn to be a knife-grinder. It'd just suit me.

I could wander about from place to place, and have plenty of fresh air, and my liberty too. So I paid a chap to teach me the trade, and set myself up with my cart and all complete. But after a bit, my fayther and mother died; and I felt there were one thing as I were short on, and that were a wife. My brothers and sisters had all gotten married; so I wanted a home. But I wasn't going to take up with any sort; I meant to get a real good wife, or I'd have none at all. Well, I found one just the right make for me--a tidy, loving Christian she were. I loved my home, and were seldom off more nor two or three days at a time, when I took my cart a little further nor usual. We never had but one child; and she were a girl, and as likely a wench as were to be found in all the country round. She were a good daughter to me, Jacob, for many a long year; for her mother died when she were but ten year old, and I didn't wed again. Poor Rachel! she were no ordinary wench, you may be sure. She were quite a little woman afore she were as high as my waistcoat. All the neighbours used to say, 'He'll get a good wife as gets your Rachel;' and I used to say, 'Well, I don't want her to leave me, but I'll ne'er say No if she keeps company with a fellow as loves his Bible and hates the drink.' Well, there were an old widow in our village as made a great profession of religion. She were always at chapel and meeting, and as full of pious talk as an egg's full of meat.

Our Rachel thought her almost too good for this sinful world; but somehow I couldn't take to her myself. I feared she were not the right side out. I had many a talk with Ruth Canters--for that were her name.