ROUGH NOTES.
Old man told me. Lad Fred—folk, Baddeley—took service yont the Wolds—bad end. May be true—rough times, "hell 'n' rough". Old man says had it from grandfather. Fred—"fond" lad—always in scrapes, and terrible eater—bacon, potatoes, bread—loads—no "Christen stummick"—bottomless pit. Thin, small lad. Farmer sees him at the hirings—won't cost much keep—no room much food. "Where going?" "Where I can." "Not worth wage." "No; used to hear that." "Born fool to say that—won't give wage. Keep?" "Yes—honest vittles and clothes." Farmer thinks old stuff 'll do—found wrong. Fred eats house bare—still hungry. Beaten—got hungrier—working—ate more—master near ruined. Fred says, "Splitting with hunger—nothing to eat—bucket o' taters, etc.—not worth mentioning—try storehouse—bacon, maybe beef—barred—but I'm thin." Stuck fast—yells—master comes. "What doing there? Come out." "Can't." "What you stealing?" "Food, 'Mistress throng'." Master furious—beats him—position handy. Wife comes. "Stop—make him eat more—don't beat him." Farmer pulls off nail—lets him go. Fred's clothes ragged. "Niver lemme goo nackt. Master has lots—help myself." Takes best suit—too big—holds them up—meets master and missis—very angry. "Bet tha 's black 's rotten to'nips!" Wife stops him, as before. He cuts off Fred's hand—threatens call police if he tells—Fred fool—says nothing. Next he steals money. "Hell of a row." Farmer throws something—Fred gets arm broken—has to be taken off (teller forgets particulars here). Fred stays on—says getting used. "Head next time—not so easy." Wrong.
Farmer unpopular—ricks threatened—watched nights. Fred better—night work—not let sleep by day—kept wake first nights—afterwards slept sound.
Farmer wakes—sees light—goes down—bare legs—swearing—devil ashamed. "Where's scoundrel?" Fred asleep with pigs. Master too angry to speak—drags him to ricks—throws him in. Fred barely awake. "Kill anybody helps." Men frightened. Fred caught in rope—burnt to death. Queer folk then—that's as told me.
Sam'l's Ghost.
A do'ant know as a unnerstan' what tha me'an by "ghostis". Ef tha spe'aks o' bogles, na'ow, or corps or such? Ooh—! De'ad fo'ak as wa'alk's? A've heard un ca'alled Bogles an' Fetches, an' a've heerd on he'aps, but a can't sa'ay as a seed ony masel'. Theer's a red wummin
