'
'Aye, and there's few folks know so well as you how it come to be
Charity Land, eh, Mr Macey?' said the butcher.
'How should they?' said the old clerk, with some contempt. 'Why, my
grandfather made the grooms' livery for that Mr Cliff as came and
built the big stables at the Warrens. Why, they're stables four
times as big as Squire Cass's, for he thought o' nothing but hosses
and hunting, Cliff didn't- a Lunnon tailor, some folks said, as had
gone mad wi' cheating. For he couldn't ride; lor bless you! they
said he'd got no more grip o' the hoss than if his legs had been cross
sticks: my grandfather heared old Squire Cass say so many and many a
time. But ride he would, as if old Harry had been a-driving him; and
he'd a son, a lad o' sixteen; and nothing would his father have him
do, but he must ride and ride- though the lad was frighted, they said.
And it was a common saying as the father wanted to ride the tailor out
o' the lad, and make a gentleman on him- not but what I'm a tailor
myself, but in respect as God made me such, I'm proud on it, for
"Macey tailor", 's been wrote up over our door since afore the Queen's
heads went out on the shillings. But Cliff, he was ashamed o' being
called a tailor, and he was sore vexed as his riding was laughed at,
and nobody o' the gentlefolks hereabout could abide him. Howsomever,
the poor lad got sickly and died, and the father didn't live long
after him, for he got queerer nor ever, and they said he used to go
out i' the dead o' the night, wi' a lantern in his hand, to the
stables, and set a lot o' lights burning, for he got as he couldn't
sleep; and there he'd stand, cracking his whip and looking at his
hosses; and they said it was a mercy as the stables didn't get burnt
down wi' the poor dumb creaturs in 'em.
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