Ther a chap that they coed “Billy Bump” (Jone began), ut lived down i’th’ Broozles; that’s somewhere toart Owdham, I think. Billy wur a wayver, an’ wove to owd Kay’s i’ Manchester, an’ he’d as good a reed o’ wark as any ther wur gooin i’ thoose days. He used to bear whoam every Sethurday as regular as Sethurdays coome round, an’ it wur very nee as sure as ever he went ut he’d ha’ comen back drunken, for he couldn’t go past a alehouse dur if he yerd a noise inside; an’ he’d ha’ peearcht i’th nook as long as anybody else, or as long as they’d ha’ filled him drink.
Well, one Kesmas neet Billy had been kept late at the warehouse, becose ther so mony beside him to be fitted, as ther aulus is at a pastime. Bein as it wur so far on, he thowt he’d go straight whoam; for he had to buy a lot o’ oranges for th’ childer, an’ he knew they wouldno’ go to bed till they’d had one a-piece, an’ yerd th’ Kesmas Hymn sung. It wur a cowd frosty neet, wi’ plenty o’ stars, an a’ bit o moon ut favvort it had been breetent up o’ purpose for Kesmas, an’ when Billy cockt his nose up at th’ New Cross, an’ felt th’ wynt come slap int’ his face like a cowd dichclout, he didno’ mak two buffers o’turnin into th’ “Crown an’ Kettle,” just for a warm pint an’ a pipe. Well, in he went, an’ fund a lot o’ chaps fro’ th’ Plattin, singin’ as if they’d lift th’ roof off. Billy’s wallet shuttert off his shoother in a crack, an th’ next minit he’re sprawtin afore th’ fire same as if he’d been put theer to roast. A pint, he thowt, ud hardly weet his whistle; so he supped one, an’ knockt again for another; an’ by th’ time he’d bottom’d th’ second he mit ha’ been glued to th’ cheer, for any notion he had o’ stirrin yet awhile. He sung ’em “Robin an’ Kate,” an’ “The Dark Rolling Danube,” for Billy wur as good a singer as heer an’ theer one. At last th’ company slackent, an’ ther nob’dy laft nobbut him an’ another chap, ut lookt like a tramp. This stranger sit starin at Bill, an’ e’en now he says –
“Cold night, mesther.”
“Ay, outside,” Billy says.
“You come from the country, I suppose?”
Bill reckont he did.
“Far?”
“A two-thri mile.”
“Owdham?”
“That way on”
“Dangerous road?”
“What for?” Billy said, for he’d quite forgotten o about footpads and the like, an’ how lonely it wur o’er by th’ Yeath late o’ neets. So he said, “I conno’ see how it’s so dangerous – a good hard road, an’ plenty o’ moon an’ star leet.”
“Hush! I mean robbers.” An’ the chap spoke in a whisper.
“Oh, ay?” Well, ther’s summat i’ that,” Billy said; an’ I da’say at th’ same time he wisht he’re at th’ back o’th’ Watchcote towbar; for by that time it wur getting on for twelve o’clock.
“I’m going that way,” th’ stranger said, “and have been waiting for company, as I do not like the idea of going over Newton Heath myself, when there are so many rumours of highway robberies having been perpetrated in that neighbourhood. Not that I have anything they can take from me, but still it is unpleasant to meet with a thief who punishes you because he can find nothing upon you.”
“Ay,” Billy said; an’ he put his hont int’ his pocket an’ counted his brass. “I’ve nobbut a two-thri coppers beside a suvverin, an’ that I’ll put i’ my clog,” he said; “an’ if yo’n a mind we’n go t’gether for company, like.”
Th’ stranger agreed.
Well, they’d another pint in, an’ then Billy shoothert his wallet, an’ teed his hat o’er his ears, an’ leet his pipe, an’ then said he’re ready.
So they two seet off t’gether, an’ fund they’d a good deeal o’ Newton Lone to theirsels. They passed some Kesmas singers at th’ Plattin, an’ after that o wur as quiet as if they’d been at th’ middle o’th’ White Moss. Well, they kept on, Billy’s clogs makkin o th’ noise ther wur, till they geet to th’ top o’th Yeath. There Billy happent to stop while he changed his wallet fro’ one shoother to th’ tother; an’ just as he’d done that he seed his companioin stondin afore him, an’ howdin a pistil at his yead.
“Oh, ay!” Well, I didno’ think that on thee, noather, or else we should ha’ had a pint less,” Billy says, at th’ same time feelin a little bit pottersome. “I reckon it’s that suvverin thou wants. Well, I’st mak no sort o’ bother about it, for I aulus fund quietness wur th’ best wheer I’d a chance o’ havin th’ worst on’t. But I’st ha’ to poo my clog off afore I con get to it, thou knows.”
“Well, be quick,” th’ stranger said, “before I blow your head off.”
Billy down with his wallet, an’ then dofft his clog; but it wur not that ut had th’ suvverin in it, noather. So he groped about th’ inside, same as if he’re feelin’ for th’ brass, an’ kept watchin th’ chap’s hont o th’ time. E’ennow he up with his clog an’ catcht his hont with a blow ut ud welly ha’ knockt a cow down. Th’ pistil dropt, an’ Billy ud howd on’t afore th’ stranger could bat his een.
“Now, then,” he says to th’ chap, “just pike that wallet up an’ carry it to our house quietly, or I’ll whistle a tune i’ thy earhole ut thou winnot like. Come, just be nimble, wilta?”
“You’ve nearly broken my hand with that thundering clog o’ yours,” th’ stranger said.
“Thou may think thysel weel ut I ha’ not brokken a two-thri o’ thy ribs afore now,” an’ Billy just put his foot agen th’ chap’s hindereend, ut made him look rayther wakken; an’ he nipt th’ wallet up, an’ put it ont’ his shoother as comfortable as he knew how. Billy catcht howd on him by th’ collar just as he’re makkin a spring for t’ set out o’ runnin.
“Nay, nay, I dunno’ want thee to go by thysel,” Billy said; “I’st goo wi’ thee. So tramp, an’ I’ll just stick to thee for t’ save thee fro’ tumblin.”
Th’ chap seeed he’d no chance nobbut doin as Billy ordered him; so they went on an’ crossed th’ Yeath, Billy stickin to th’ tother’s collar like a pair o’ pincers, an’ now an’ then cockin th’ pistil just below his hat, an’ tellin him for two pins he’d drill a piece out of his yead for t’ leeten him a bit.
A’ this way they went on a mile or two furr, an’ at th’ last turnt into th’ lone ut led to wheer Billy lived. When they geet to th’ dur, Billy said, “Come, we’n just co and leeav th’ wallet, an’ then we’n goo an’ knock owd Jack Taylier (he’re th’ constable) up, an’ see if he’s any whoam-brewed i’th’ house; for I da’ say thou could do with a sope.”
Th’ chap thowt he’re getting on very nicely, an’ ut Billy ud be gettin fuddlt, an’ then he could slip out o’th road.
So into th’ house they went.
Billy’s wife wur waitin up, an’ th’ childer wur wakken i’ bed, an’ when they yerd th’ dur oppen, they shouted out, “Is my dad comen? has he browt any oranges?” “Ay, an’ a felly to carry ’em,” Billy said. “Now , Mary,” he said, “I never went out but I coome again, an’ this time I’ve browt company, thou sees. Thou’s no ’casion to poo thy face; he’ll no’ tarry so lung; but bein as he’re so good as to carry my wallet, he desarves a drop o’ drink.”
“Is’t fotch no drink out to-neet,” Billy’s wife said, “an’ look what time it is. Yo’n had enoogh, I think, for thou looks as wild as if thou’d seen a boggart.”
“Ay, an’ thou’d ha’ looked wild, too, if thou’d had this poked i’ thy face,” an’ Billy showed th’ pistil ut he had in his hont.
Th’ wife set up a scream, an’ e’ennow th’ childer coome clatterin down th’ stairs, skrikin out, an’ wonderin what there wur to do.
“ See yo’, childer; this chap had thowt to ha’ takken yer buttercakes off yo’, Billy sed, ‘but I stopt him at it; so he’s goin a havin his Kesmas wi’ owd Jack Taylier, an’ I’ll goo wi’ him an’ see ut they dunno’ turn him out o’th’ dur till he’s had enough. Now, get yo’ a orange a-piece, an’ upstairs wi’ yo’; an’ Mary, thee give o’er skrikin, for I’st be back again i’ two minits. Come on, Copper Nob.”
With that they set out; th’ stranger gettin rayther down about his Kesmas when he felt Billy’s hont tighten on him like a vice. At last they coome to a house ut stood by itsel, just by th’ broo’ side. Billy stopt.
“This is owd Jack Taylier’s,” he said. “Con’t sing any? If thou con, we’n just give ’em a stave o’th’ Kesmas Hymn for t’wakken ’em up.”
Th’ stranger muttered summat very savage; so Billy punst th’ dur, an’ gan a hunter’s shout, loud enoogh to wakken o th’ fowt. Owd Jack geet up to th’ window un said: –
“Whoa’s theer?”
“Me,” Billy ses.
“Is it thee, Bump?”
“Ay.”
“An’ what hast wi’ thee?”
“A chap ut wants buy a canary.”
Owd Jack wur a great canary breeder, so thowt he’d a chance of a good customer, an’ he coome down th’ stairs an’ oppent th’ dur.
“Wheer’s yor Tinker?” (that wur a big dog) Billy says.
“He’s upo’ th’ hearthstone.”
“Just let him smell at this chap’s heels, ut he’ll know him again.”
“Here, Tinker!”
Tinker coome, jumpt up at th’ stranger, walked round him, and then laid him down again.
Billy towd owd Jack what had happent, an’ rayly th’ owd lad stared when he fund ut he’d a highwayman i’th’ house instead o’ a canary chap. Th’ fire wur brokken up, an’ th’ couch-cheear drawn to th’ hearthstone, an’ th’ chap wur towd he met lay him down; but if he offered to get away, Tinker ’ud have his throat out before he could stir a foot. Th’ ale wur fotcht out, an’ bread an’ cheese, an’ Billy ‘ud ha’ sung “Robin an’ Kate,” but th’ wife coome for him, an’ said hoo’re feart he’d be murthert.
Well, i’ th’ mornin th’ chap wur hondcuffed, an’ marcht off to th’ New Bailey; an’ when his trial coome on, they gan him a lease o’ some ground toart Botany Bay for fourteen year; and Billy Bump were made into th’ captian o’th’ Watch on Ward, an’ he’s th’ pistil ut he took hanged o’er th’ chimdeypiece to this day.