They met at the smithy, waiting for "The Crooked Billet" to open for the
evening. There was Joe Stackhouse the besom-maker, familiarly known as
Besom-Joe, William Throup the postman, Tommy Thwaite the "Colonel," so
called for his willingness to place his advice at the service of any of
the Allied Commanders-in-Chief, and Owd Jerry the smith, who knew how to
keep silent, but whose opinion, when given, fell with the weight of his
hammer on the anvil. He refuted his opponents by asking them questions,
after the manner of Socrates. The subject of conversation was the
village school-mistress, who had recently been placed in charge of some
thirty children, and was winning golden opinions on all sides.
"Shoo's a gooid 'un, is schooil-missus, for all shoo's nobbut fower foot
eleven," began Stackhouse; "knows how to keep t' barns i' their places
wi'out gettin' crabby or usin' ower mich stick."
"Aye, and shoo's gotten a vast o' book-larnin' intul her heead," said
Throup. "I reckon shoo's a marrow for t' parson, ony day."
"Nay, shoo'll noan best t' parson," objected Stackhouse who, as
"church-warner" for the year, looked upon himself as the defender of the
faith, the clergy, and all their works. "Parson's written books abaat t'
owd churches i' t' district, who's bin wedded in 'em, and who's liggin'
i' t' vaults."
"Well," rejoined the Colonel, "and didn't Mary Crabtree, wheer shoo
lodges, insense us that t' schooil-missus had gotten well-nigh a dozen
books in her kist, and read 'em ivery eemin?"
"Aye, but shoo's noan written 'em same as t' parson has," retorted
Stackhouse.
"I reckon it's just as hard to read a book thro' cover to cover as to
write one," retorted the Colonel.
"An' shoo can write too," the postman joined in, "better nor t' parson.
I've seen her letters, them shoo writes and them shoo gets sent her. An'
there's a queer thing abaat some o' t' letters at fowks writes to her;
they put B.A. at after her name."
"Happen them'll be her Christian names," suggested Stackhouse. "There's
a mak o' fowks nowadays that gets more nor one name when they're
kessened."
"Nay," replied Throup, "her name's Mary, and what fowks puts on t'
envelope is Miss Mary Taylor, B.A."
"Thou's sure it's 'B.A.,' and not 'A.B.,'" said Stackhouse. "I've a
nevvy on one o' them big ships, and they tell me he's registered 'A.B.,'
meaning able-bodied, so as t' Admirals can tell he hasn't lossen a
limb."
"Nay, it's 'B.A.,' and fowks wodn't call a lass like Mary Taylor
able-bodied; shoo's no more strength in her nor a kitlin."
"I reckon it's nowt to do wi' her body, isn't 'B.A.,'" interposed the
Colonel. "Shoo'll be one o' yon college lasses, an' they tell me they're
all foorced to put 'B.A.' at after their names."
"What for?" asked the smith, who was always suspicious of information
coming from the Colonel.
"Happen it'll be so as you can tell 'em thro' other fowks. It'll be same
as a farmer tar-marks his yowes wi' t' letters o' his name."
"Doesta mean that they tar-mark lasses like sheep?" asked William
Throup, his mouth agape with wonder.
"Nay, blether-heead," replied Stackhouse, "they'll be like t' specials,
and have t' letters on one o' them armlets. But doesta reckon, Colonel,
that B.A. stands for t' name o' t' chap that owns t' college?"
"Nay, they tell me that it stands for Bachelor of Arts, choose-what that
means."
The smith had listened to the Colonel's explanation of the mysterious
letters with growing scepticism. He had scarcely spoken, but an
attentive observer could have divined his state of mind by the short,
petulant blows he gave to the glowing horseshoe on the anvil. Now he
stopped in his work, rested his arms on his hammer-shaft, and proceeded,
after his fashion, to test the Colonel by questions.
"Doesta reckon, Colonel," he began, "that t' schooil-missus is a he-male
or a she-male?"
"Her's a she-male, o' course. What maks thee axe that?"
The smith brushed the query aside as though it had been a cinder, and
proceeded with his own cross-examination.
"An' doesta think that far-learnt fowks i' colleges can't tell a he-male
thro' a she-male as well as thee?"
"O' course they can. By t' mass, Jerry, what arta drivin' at?"
"An' hasta niver bin i' church, Colonel," the smith continued,
unperturbed, "when t' parson has put spurrins up? Why, 'twere nobbut a
week last Sunday sin he axed if onybody knew just cause or 'pediment why
Tom Pounder sudn't wed Anne Coates."
"I mind it, sure enough," interjected Stackhouse, "and fowks began to
girn, for they knew there was ivery cause an' 'pediment why he sud wed
her."
"Hod thy din! Besom-Joe, while I ve sattled wi' t' Colonel" said the
smith, and he turned once more on his man. "What I want to know is if
parson didn't say: 'I publish t' banns o' marriage between Tom Pounder,
bachelor, and Anne Coates, spinster, both o' this parish.'"
"Aye, that's reight," said the Colonel, "an' I see what thou's drivin'
at. Thou means Mary Taylor ought to be called spinster. Well, for sure,
I niver thowt o' that."
"It's not likely thou would; thou's noan what I sud call a thinkin' man.
Thy tongue is ower fast for thy mind to keep up wi' it."
"Then what doesta reckon they letters stand for?" asked Besom-Joe.
"There's nowt sae difficult wi' t' letters when you give your mind to
'em," the smith replied. "What I want to know is, if Mary Taylor came
here of her own accord, or if her was putten into t' job by other
fowks."
"I reckon shoo was appointed by t' Eddication Committee."
"Appointed, was shoo? I thowt as mich. Then mebbe 'B.A.' will stand for
'By appointment.'"
The smith's solution of the problem was received with silence, but the
silence implied approval. The Colonel, it is true, smarting under a
sense of defeat, would have liked to press the argument further; but
just then the front door of "The Crooked Billet" was thrown open by the
landlord, and the smithy was speedily emptied of its occupants.