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 was still heard muttering to himself. He swore ominous oaths over the drugged beer of alehouses, and drank strange toasts in fiery British gin.

One report affirmed that Moore dared not come to Yorkshire: he knew his life was not worth an hour's purchase, if he did.

"I'll tell him that," said Mr. Yorke, when his foreman mentioned the rumour; "and if that does not bring him home full-gallop—nothing will."

Either that or some other motive prevailed, at last, to recall him. He announced to Joe Scott the day he should arrive at Stilbro', desiring his hackney to be sent to the "George" for his accommodation; and Joe Scott having informed Mr. Yorke, that gentleman made it in his way to meet him.

It was market-day: Moore arrived in time to take his usual place at the market dinner. As something of a stranger—and as a man of note and action—the assembled manufacturers received him with a certain distinction. Some—who in public would scarcely have dared to acknowledge his acquaintance, lest a little of the hate and vengeance laid up in store for him should perchance have fallen on them—in private hailed him as in some sort their champion. When the wine had circulated, their respect would have kindled to enthusiasm, had not Moore's unshaken nonchalance held it in a damp, low, smouldering state.

Mr. Yorke—the permanent president of these dinners—witnessed his young friend's bearing with exceeding complacency. If one thing could stir his temper or excite his contempt more than another, it