She quietly proceeded to perform the required service, and whilst doing so perceived that he was a man of about fifty, rather undersized, had a red, healthy face, brawny arms and hands that had been accustomed to labour, though plump, fleshy, and soft; his eyes, half hidden by dimply folds of fat, were bright and indicative both of good nature and hasty temper. He was dressed in dark blue, wore strong half boots, disdained gloves, and his linen was of purest white.
During the short time which was occupied in sewing on the button, he was continually moving about and talking to himself, yet aloud, like one who had been much accustomed to solitary but active work. “Four foot seven frontage,” said he, “nine foot fro’ back to front, includin’ winder, counter, goods, and lass. Swing a cat! noa, couldn’t throttle a kitten wi’ ease—buttons, bobbins, beads, and braid, all in t’ winder—boxes, dummies—cost price, not a couple of ten pund notes!” Then, turning quickly towards Miss Moore, he said:
“I say, how long ha’ ye been started in business?”
“Opened yesterday.”
Again he glanced round, and with a peculiar jerk of his head seemed to indicate that he had made a full, fair, and complete appraisement of everything, gave a short, quick whistle—a note half of interrogation and half of exclamation, and blurted out another question:
“How many customers?”
“You’re the first.”
It was fortunate that the operation was now complete, for on receiving this reply, he dashed his hand upon the counter with a hearty knock which threatened to crack the thin boards, and exclaimed, “Well, that beats Lambert!” and then went off in a roar of unrestrained laughter so loud that it attracted the attention of the passers-by, some of whom stopped and clustered together in front of the shop. Miss Moore was rather alarmed both for the credit of her establishment and the safety of her person, her customer seemed so reckless, and with a flushed face and nervous tone suggested that this conduct was uncalled for. He at once caught up her words, and said:
“Thou’rt raight, lass,—quite so. It isn’t the thing, but I couldn’t help it. Thou’rt so big an’ thy shop’s so little, and thy takins less still,—I can’t help it, I mun laugh.”
Again he burst into a loud peal.
“Sir, I beg you—” remonstrated Julia, shaking with excitement as she saw the crowd thickening before the door.
“Aye, aye,” replied her customer as he jerked his head towards the door, and by a sharp glance over his shoulder saw the crowd. “Thou doesn’t like it, but ’twill draw custom—mak’ a noise—folk will think thou keeps a tame wild beast. There, that’ll do,” composing himself, and by a sideward dash of his head shaking his merriment from him. He looked round as he wiped his face, and said with a chuckle, as though his risibility was again waking up, “Why, it isn’t as big as a good-sized skip!”
Julia on the instant replied, “Not quite so small as that, nor yet so well bobbined. I’ve seen plenty of skips.”
“Thee—where?”
“I was born in Wharfdale, and afterwards lived near Shipley.”
“Thy father?”
“Was a delver. He was killed at Baildon Glen Upper Quarry.”
“Aye, aye, just so,” said her customer, jerking his head and looking up, sharply and pertly, like a sparrow, whilst he thrust his hands into his pockets, and chinked his money up and down. “Aye, aye, what wor he called?”
“Jacob Moore.”
He turned round, as Julia uttered these words, rubbed his forehead violently with his open hand, as though he was determined to bring out some deeply buried recollection, again gave a sparrow-like jerk and glance at Julia, nodded rapidly several times, and then fidgetted about like a restless beast in a cage too small for him, and blurted out, quite oblivious of his auditor, “By George—auld Jacob! debt and dirt—bad lot—left wife and two lasses.” He then turned round to Julia and said, abruptly and almost fiercely, “Where’s his wife?”
“My mother, sir?”
“Aye, thy mother. He hadn’t two wives, had he?—one wor too mony.”
“She is dead, sir;” and with tearful eyes she glanced towards her black dress.
“Dead!” cried he in a tone of deep grief or commiseration, and in the warmth of his interest, or the strength of his excitement, he clutched her arm in his strong hand until she almost fainted with the pain. “Dead!” repeated he, “what, both dead?” and reading the confirmatory answer in her countenance, at once let go his grasp, his hand dropped heavily by his side, and his voice was low and roughened, as he added—“Poor lass! both gone. Well, well, we mun all go.” He stood for some time engrossed in thought, during which he performed innumerable head-jerkings, and kept up an unbroken cataract of coins in his pockets. At length he seemed to settle things to his satisfaction, for darting round his sparrow-like glance, he again asked, “How long sin’ she died? and where’s t’other bairn—I think thou said a lass younger nor thee?”
Julia could not remember that she had said anything of the kind, but replied, “My mother died about three months ago, and soon after that my sister Susan—” here her sobs would come, and she had to pause before she could continue, “my sister would not stay to be beholden to me, and left to seek work—and—I don’t know where she is.” The tears clustered in her eyes, and at last ran over.
“Ran away,—aye, I see. Bad lot. Like father. I’m very sorry for thee, but such things will happen, ’specially in Lon’on. What’s to pay?”
Julia handed him a very minute packet, saying, “One button sewn on, five here, make the half-dozen, which is twopence.”
“Let’s see if it be raight,” said he, deliberately opening the paper, and counting the buttons, which he then put up. He thrust his hand to the bottom of one capacious pocket, then another, bringing out nondescript pieces of papers, crumpled