‘Men are kittle cattle enough,’ replied ‘the Heckler’ oracularly, from his position of vantage on the top of a gate, to some question of mine concerning an indignation meeting held recently to protest against some matter about which no two people could give a like account; ‘but they’re nowt ti what womenfolk is. Ye can get roond most men easy enough if ye’ve a bit tax.’

‘Tax?’ I queried aloud, somewhat mystified. ‘What tax? not rates an’ tax——’

‘Gan on wi’ thoo—rates an’ taxes be d——!’ retorted the oracle swiftly. ‘No, nowt ti do wi’ them things; just tax, or tacts, mevvies it is, meanin’ a pleasant way wi’ ye, a bit touch o’ the cap when the manager’s vext wi’ ye, a turn o’ management when a drunken man wants ti fight ye for nowt at aal, ye ken, an’ sae forth. Wow, but ye can fettle most things amangst men wiv a little o’ that social lubricant, but wi’ women it’s different aaltigether; tax is nae use wi’ them; it’s just throwin’ pearls before swine.’

‘Holloa!’ I interrupted again. ‘What would the missus say to that?’

‘Not hevin’ heard it, she’ll say nowt,’ retorted ‘the Heckler’ severely.

‘Well, as I was aboot to say when thoo forgot theeself, and disturbed the meetin’ wi’ yor interruptions, most men has foibles—some’s dog-men like myself, some’s book-men, some’s gard’ners, some’s beer-barrils, an’ sae forth, an’ if ye mind this ye can get what ye want usuallies oot o’ them. But women’s a different breed aaltigether. They divvn’t care for the same things as men, an’ ye cannet get roond them, I’s warn’d, for they elwis gets roond ye instead. A man has no ambitions till he’s married, Maistor John. Mevvies he’s keen aboot this, an’ that, an’ ’tother thing, but that’s nowt. Noo, woman’s just chockfull ov ambitions aal her life long, an’s nivvor, no, nivvor, satisfied from her cradle tiv her grave, an’ even then she’s wantin’ fower horses tiv her hearse. Tak’ a wee girlie for an instance: she’s elwis wantin’ new claes; then she’s wantin’ a man, then bairns, then a hoos ov her own, then a better cloak than Mariarann nex’ door; an’ when she gets them aal she’s not satisfied, not one little bit, but’s warse than ivvor.

‘Noo I’ll gie ye an instance o’t.

‘Ye’ll dootless mind havin’ seen or heard tell ov Tom Archbold, yence fore overman here i’ the aad pit, a great, big, buirdly man, champion hewer o’ the colliery at one time, who aye took the lead i’ the village at every bit sport, an’ carry-on, an’ jollification that might be gannin’ on at any time. ‘Well, there was a little wee bit lassie ov aboot twenty-five years ov age, who had been married yence, but had lost her man iv an accident doon the pit—a fall o’ stone, ye ken—an’ nae sooner has she buried him than she’s on the look-oot for anither mate.

‘Well, bein’ the littlest woman i’ the village, she natorally—such bein’ woman’s human nature—tak’s a fancy for the biggest man iv it, meanin’ Tom Archbold, an’ she gans for him straight awa.

‘Ye’ll hev seen a setter dog workin’ for a partridge or a rabbit iv a rough grass field, mevvies. Weel, it was just the same method o’ procedure wiv her. She gets a scent o’ what she was wantin’; she draws upon him up wind; then she gets a tip-toe, steals tiv him till her breath’s fair upon him, an’ the man’s done—fair done—clean copped, and it’s “for better an’ warse till death do us part.”

‘So it was wi’ Lizzie an’ Tom.

‘Tom was a weeda (widower), an’ on the look-out for anither missus, an’ havin’ had a great big woman for his first—a proper marrow ov himself i’ size an’ shape—an’ not havin’ been ower well satisfied wiv his venture, he thinks he’ll try a smaller article for his second lott’ry.

‘Well, Tom was elwis very free an’ open wiv his conversation, an’ mevvies Lizzie, she gets ti hear ov it; but she pretends ti tak’ no notice o’ Tom when she passes along the Raa,[12] or meets Tom i’ the street. She just sails past him, noo wiv head i’ the air, again wiv her eyes upon the ground, mournfu’ like for the loss of her man, an’ Tom becomes quite bewitched by her manners, for she was a fair contrast wiv Bella, who had ti tarrify him wiv a summons from the pollis at the finish before she could get him ti marry her i’ chorch.

‘Well, she bags him clivvor at the finish, an’ they gets theyselves married wivoot more ado. ‘A week efter comes “pay-Friday,”[13] an’, natorally, quite apart from the “celebration of his nuptials,” as the newspaper cheps say, he gets hissel’ as boosy as can be, what wi’ standin’ treat, an’ bein’ treat an’ aal, an’ efter closin’ time it was wi’ some difficulty that me an’ my marrer gets him along home.

‘We knocks on the door, an’ we assists him in, an’ he staggers up tiv his missus, who was sittin’ iv her armchair knittin’, an’ tries ti gie her a bit chuck under the chin. “Ho—way——,” he stutters, “Lizzie, maa lass, an’ put us ti bed!” an’ stoopin’ down iv a staggerin’ way ti kiss her loses his balance, an’ flops doon unexpected on the floor. “Ye needn’t wait,” Lizzie says tiv us, haughty-like, takin’ no notice o’ Tom, an’ sae oot we gans, an’ leaves them. But we just stops a minute ootside ti hear Lizzie gie him his gruel; an’, wow! but she let him have it, an’ no mistake! “Thoo great flamin’ drunken lubbert!” says she, “comin’ home ti my hoos at this time o’ night, drunk as a lord, an’ only been married a week!” she cries. “Thoo mun just get used wiv it, maa lass,” says he solemnly from the floor; “for aa elwis gets drunk reg’lor on a pay-Friday; an’ it’sh maa hoos thoo ——, for aa’s maistor,” he says, thinkin’, mevvies, he mun assert hissel’ even if he has had his gills.

‘“Put thoo ti bed?” cries she. “Wey, I’ll not touch thoo, nor let thoo touch me nowther till thoo’s sober again, an’s begged maa pardon.”

‘“Pardon-sh?” says Tom, an’ laughs, fair amused by her impittence. “Wey, if maa legs wesn’t sae wambly the night, I’d larn thoo a lesson, thoo ——”

‘“Get up, an’ try, thoo sponge o’ beer,” she says, an’ snaps her fingers iv his face. “Get up, an’ try,” cries she again. “I daur thoo ti;” an’ she actually has the impittence ti stir him wiv her foot. Just fancy that! A yard an’ a half o’ petticoat, fair insultin’ upon a proper mountain ov a man like Tom! The door was a bit open, d’ye see, an’ my marrer an’ me could see them two comics quite plain.

‘Well, Tom, he thinks things is comin’ tiv a pretty pass if his missis is gannin’ ti clean her boots on him efter a week’s marryin’; so, much against his will, he pulls hissel’ tegither, an’ by the help o’ the bedpost gets on his feet.

‘“Wey,” cries Lizzie again, lookin’ him ower mair scornfu’ than ever, “thoo’s as unsteady on thy feet as a horse wi’ the staggers!” she says. “I could knock thoo doon wi’ one finger!”

‘“I bet-sh a sovereign thoo cannet; ay, an’ anither that I’ll drive yo’r lugs reet intiv yo’r heid wi’ one bat o’ my fist,” says he; an’ he puffs hissel’ oot as he searches for the coin, an’ spits on his hands iv a preliminary sort o’ way.

‘Then, sudden, she comes up tiv him, gies him a tap wiv her forefinger, unexpected like, straight on the breast, an’ Tom, taken unawares, lurches backward, catches his foot iv a bracket, crashes intiv a chair, an’ falls wiv a tarr’ble thump an’ a racket of furniture straight on ti the flaggin’. He gies a little lift ov his head as he looks up in a dazed way for a moment from the floor. Then he says, sinkin’ back again, “There’s been a fall o’ stone; gan an’ fetch the depity,” he says, then sort o’ dwams (swoons) awa.

‘Lizzie, she looks him ower for awhile, cool as a policeman wiv a lantern, then lifts a pillow off the bed, an’ puts it under his head as he lies stretched upon the floor. Next, she takes the boots off her man, an’ sae leaves him ti bide where he lies, whilst she gans ti bed her lane.

‘Next mornin’ Tom feels hissel’ as sick as a bad bat o’ the head an’ a wambly stomach can make a man, an’ “lies in” while his missus gies him warm things ti drink, an’ tends him like a bairn. ‘Well, she has him properly caught, for he has ti lie there idle the best part ov a week, an’ cannet work for another week efter that, the skelp he’d got frae the fall bein’ a serious affair, as it seemed.

‘When he gets up again he was sae savage at the chaff he gets aboot bein’ knocked doon biv his missus that he gans back tiv his hoos iv a hurry, tak’s off his belt, an’ is gannin’ ti strap her within an inch ov her life, when she says, “Tom, an’ who was it that’s been nursin’ thoo this last fortnight?” An’ she axes it quietly, facin’ him wivoot a tremor, her eyes fixed upon his.

‘Tom stands there wiv his arm uplifted; but though he was hot ti strike her, somehoo or ither, as he said efter, he was fair bested if he could manage it.

‘Well, that was aboot the beginnin’ an’ the end o’t, for she’d conquered him properly, an’ Mister Six-Foot-Two soon found oot he’d got a proper taskmaster for his missus, even though she was but a yard an’ a half high, an’ looked as though ye could have snapt her across yor arm. She didn’t knock him doon again, but she was elwis surprisin’ him inti startin’ things, an’ when he tired ov it she would scorn him a bit, an’ ask, “An’ what’s the good o’ bein’ a strong man if ye cannet show yor strength? Any fool can get drunk,” says she, “an’ lose his brass bettin’; but thoo’s a strong man, Tom, I’s warn’d, an’ I’ve bet Ned Lee’s wife a dollar that thoo can walk past the Pitman’s Arms on pay-Friday night wivvoot ever lookin’ inside!”

‘Well, that was the way o’t i’ Lizzie’s case. She soon had her Samson’s locks clipped short, an’ iv a few years’ time he becomes a depity, a back overman, an’ finally fore overman, has a hoos ov his own, an’ a whole raa (row) o’ cottages.

‘Some has different ways from others,’ reflected my companion, further, ‘but aal womenfolk’s ambitious.’

‘Noo, tak’ my own case—“the Heckler’s” —when I got married on the aad lady there was no nonsense aboot the business. “Ho-way,” I says, “will ye tak’ us, Betty?” for I kenned nicely beforehand she was the right sort for us, havin’ obsarved her previous, an’ walked oot wiv her a Sunday night or two. “Ay, an’ I will, Geordie,” she says thankfully, an’ as meek as skim milk; but for aal that I’ve been got the best o’ lots o’ time biv her ambition, an’ noo, here I is, wiv a fam’ly o’ seven, an’ the missus insistin’ upon Harry’s—that’s the eldest boy, ye ken—gannin’ ti the Grammar School ti parfect hissel’ as a scholar. Ay, wor Harry’s a proper scholar, I’s warn’d, but schoolin’s tarr’ble expensive.

‘An’ noo, I’ll just gie ye this bit advice, Maistor John. Divvn’t thoo get married unless thoo marries a heiress, for, I tell thoo, aal women’s ambitious, an’ ambition’s a tarr’ble expensive hobby.

‘Gox! yes, just fearful, Maistor John.’