In Yorkshire, when a man is very busy, we say he is “despert thrang”; but when he is so busy that “t’ sweat fair teems off him,” we say that he is as “thrang as Throp’s wife.”  Now I had always been curious to know who Throp’s wife was, and wherein her “thrangness” consisted, and what might be Throp’s view of the matter; but all my inquiries threw no light upon the problem, and it seemed as though Throp’s wife were going to prove as intangible as Mrs Harris.  But I am not the man to be put off by feminine elusiveness, so I made a vow that I would give up smoking until I had found Throp’s wife and made her mine.  My summer holiday was coming on, and I decided that, instead of spending the week in Scarborough, I would make a tour through the towns and villages of the West Riding in search of Throp’s wife.  I took the matter as much to heart as if I had been a mediaeval knight setting forth to rescue some distressed damsel from the clutches of a wicked magician or monstrous hippogriff, and I called my expedition “the quest of Throppes wife”; as my emblem I chose the words “Cherchez la femme.”

I first of all turned my steps in the direction of Pudsey, for I knew that it had the reputation of being the home of lost souls.  To my delight I found that Pudsey professed first-hand acquaintance with the lady.

“Throp’s wife,” said Pudsey; “ay, iverybody has heerd tell abaat Throp’s wife.  Thrang as Throp’s wife is what fowks allus say.”

“Yes, yes,” I replied; “but what I want to know is who Throp’s wife really was.”

“Why,” answered Pudsey, “shoo’ll happen hae bin t’ wife o’ a chap they called Throp.”

Now that was just the answer I might have expected from Pudsey, and I decided to waste no more time there.  So I made for the Heavy Woollen District—­capital letters, if you please, Mr Printer—–­ and straightway put my question.  But the Heavy Woollen District was far too thrang itself to take interest in anybody else’s thrangness; it knew nothing about quests or emblems, cared little about Throp’s wife, and less about me.  So I commended the Heavy Woollens to the tender mercies of the excess profits taxers and sped on my way.  I struck across country for the Calder Valley, but neither at Elland, which calls itself Yelland, nor at Halifax, which is said to be the pleasantest place in England to be hanged in, could I obtain any clue as to the lady’s identity.  “Thrang as Throp’s wife” was everywhere a household phrase, but that was all.  I was beginning to grow weary; besides, I wanted my pipe.

“What is the use,” I asked Halifax, “of your establishing Literary and Philosophical Societies, Antiquarian Societies, and a local branch of the Society for Promoting Christian Knowledge, if you cannot get to the bottom of Throp’s wife?”

Halifax was somewhat taken aback at this, and its learned antiquaries, in self-defence, assured me that, if she had been a Roman remain they would have known all about her.