'Oh, I know they! Yes, I do for sure. I see'd 'em round t'other side o' the field five minutes agone. The thin un in front be Mester Reade, the lawyer fra' Warford, and a tight-fisted rascal he be, too, from all they say. It's Heaven help them as Lawyer Reade gets his teeth into! And the big, stout man be Mester Norton, the distiller, him as has those works t'other side o' Warford, and runs half the drink-shops in the town, to say naught o' the country publics he owns, too. The teetotalers calls him "Old Blazes," partly to favour his red face and partly 'at he keeps the whisky traffic going so briskly. He's worth a power o' money, he be, but it all comes out o' poor folks' pockets, what ought to be put to a better use.'