"Mess, lads, but he'd be a reet good Parli'ment man to threep about the nation." "Weel, I's na pollytishun, but if it's tearin' and snappin' same as a terrier that mak's a reet good Parli'ment man, I reckon not all England could bang him." "And that's not saying nowt, Sim. I've heard Grey Graham on the ballot till it's wet him through to the waistcoat." "Is that Mister Paul Ritson and Mistress Lowther just run in for shelter?" "Surely; and a reet bonny lass she is." "And he's got larnin' and manners too." "Ey, he's of the bettermer sort, is Paul." "Does she live at the parson's--Parson Christian's?" "Why, yes, man; it's only naturable--he's her guardian." "And what a man he is, to be sure." "Ey, we'll never see his like again when he's gone." "Nay, not till the water runs up bank and trees grow down bank." "And what a scholar, and no pride neither, and what's mair in a parson, no greed. Why, the leal fellow values the world and the world's gear not a flea." "Contentment's a kingdom, as folk say, and religion is no worse for a bit o' charity." There was a momentary pressure of the company toward the mouth of the booth, where Gubblum Oglethorpe reappeared with his pack swung from his neck in front of him. The girls gathered eagerly around. "What have you to-day, Gubblum?" "Nay, nowt for you, my dear. You're one of them that allus looks best with nothing on." "Oh, Gubblum!" The compliment was certainly a dubious one. "Only your bits of shabby duds--that's all that pretty faces like yours wants." "Oh, Gubblum!" The peddler was evidently a dear, simple soul. "Lord bless you, yes; what's in here," slapping his pack contemptuously, "it's only for them wizzent old creatures up in London--them 'at have faces like the map of England when it shows all the lines of the railways--just to make them a bit presentable, you know. And there is no knowing what some of these things won't do to mak' a body smart--what with brooches and handkerchers and collars, and I don't know what." Gubblum's air of indifference had the extraordinary effect of bringing a dozen pairs of gloating eyes on the strapped pack. The face of the peddler wore an expression of bland innocence as he continued: "But bless you, I'm such a straightforward chap, or I'd make my fortune with the like of what's here." "Open your pack, Gubblum," said one of the fellows, Geordie Moore, prompted by sundry prods from the elbow of a little damsel by his side. The "straightforward chap" made a deprecatory gesture, and then yielded obligingly. While loosening the straps he resumed his discourse on his own general ignorance of business tactics, his ruinous honesty, and demoralizing sense of honor. "I'm not cute enough, that's my fault. I know the way to my mouth with a spoonful of poddish, and that's all. If I go further in the dark, I'm lost." Gubblum opened his pack and drew forth a red and green shawl of a hideous pattern.