The Adventures of Tom Leigh by Phyllis Bentley

This platform was walled round, with steps leading up to it, quite solid. I could not make out what the use of the thing could be: there were two tall upright pieces of timber, grooved, and joined near the top by a beam across; within these was a square block of wood, which looked as if it would slide up and down in the groove.
    â€œWhat is that, Jeremy?” I asked.
    â€œThat’s the gibbet,” he said. “Haven’t you heard of Halifax Gibbet Law? Anyone caught stealing cloth from tenters had his head chopped off. The chap was thrown down on the ground, and there was an axe, you see, nailed to that block”—he pointed—“and the block was held up by a rope wound round a peg, and they drew the peg out, and down fell the axe. Whoosh!”
    â€œThat’s horrible!” I cried.
    â€œWell, you needn’t fret yourself, lad; it hasn’t been used for seventy years or more,” sneered Jeremy. “Can’t you see the axe and the rope aren’t there now?”
    â€œI’m glad of that. I suppose the law was so strict because it’s so easy to steal cloth from the tenters,” I said.
    â€œI daresay. Oh be hanged to the gibbet!” he cried suddenly, touching up the horse with his whip so that it started forward. “It makes one sick to look at the thing.”
    Indeed he had gone quite pale.
    â€œI agree with you, Jeremy,” said I warmly, and for the first time I felt drawn to the man.
    A moment later we passed an inn, the sign of which declared it to be the Rose and Crown, and in the doorway who should be standing but Mr. Defoe.
    â€œThere’s Mr. Defoe!” I cried, waving my hand to him. “Oh, Jeremy, may I go and talk with him? Just for a few minutes?”
    â€œYou can do owt you like for owt I care,” said Jeremy roughly. “I don’t want to see you again till six o’clock tonight. You can meet me then in the Old Cock yard.”
    â€œVery well,” said I, delighted.
    Mr. Defoe had pushed his way through the crowd and now came up to the wagon, which was halted for me to dismount.
    â€œWell, Tom! Good morning,” said he.
    â€œOh, Mr. Defoe, I am so glad to see you, to tell you how much I am enjoying—we are all enjoying—” I began. Then I remembered my manners, and said: “This is JeremyOldfield, journeyman weaver to Mr. Firth. I don’t think you saw him at Upper High Royd, he was busy at the loom.”
    â€œMorning. No, I didn’t see you at Upper High Royd,” said Mr. Defoe to Jeremy, who muttered: “Servant,” and touched his forelock. “But I saw you last night, I think. In a corner at the inn here. You were arguing some point over a drink of ale with a fellow in scarlet stockings and a man pitted by smallpox.”
    â€œMe, sir? No, sir! I wasn’t in Halifax last night,” cried Jeremy quickly. “You’ve mistaken your man, sir. You have indeed.”
    â€œWell, maybe so,” said Mr. Defoe carelessly. “The corner was dark. It’s of no consequence.”
    â€œWe must be off, Tom,” said Jeremy, whipping up the horse.
    â€œYou said I could talk to Mr. Defoe, Jeremy,” I cried, as the wagon wheel nearly knocked me down.
    â€œDo as you like, it’s nowt to me if I never see you again,” Jeremy threw back over his shoulder.
    â€œA surly, ill-conditioned fellow,” said Mr. Defoe. “I wonder how your Mr. Firth, who is a cheerful, open kind of man, can bear to keep him.”
    â€œHe is a good weaver.”
    â€œAll the same I saw him here last night, talking to scarlet stockings and pockface. Money passed between them.”
    â€œJeremy’s time after six is his own.
Robinson Crusoe
is grand, Mr. Defoe!” I burst out, tired of talk about Jeremy.
    Mr. Defoe laughed, and jingled the coins in his pocket.
    â€œIt must be long hours since you left Upper High Royd, Tom,” said he. “Art