One day he
captured on Pilmoor a lad named Jack, and instead of grinding him in the
mill he kept him grinding as his servant, and never let him get away.
Jack served the giant seven years, and never was allowed a holiday the
whole time. At last he could bear it no longer. Topcliffe fair was
coming on, and Jack begged that he might be allowed to go there.
"No, no," said the giant, "stop at home and mind your grinding."
"I've been grinding and grinding these seven years," said Jack, "and not
a holiday have I had. I'll have one now, whatever you say."
"We'll see about that," said the giant.
Well, the day was hot, and after dinner the giant lay down in the mill
with his head on a sack and dozed. He had been eating in the mill, and
had laid down a great loaf of bone bread by his side, and the knife I
told you about was in his hand, but his fingers relaxed their hold of it
in sleep. Jack seized the knife, and holding it with both his hands
drove the blade into the single eye of the giant, who woke with a howl
of agony, and starting up, barred the door.
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