“Hn, hn!--Now I don’t know whether you do me the honour to remember, gentlemen, my story of Hawley’s spy? I believe I omitted to say (quite a coincidence) that they brought him in tarred, too----” The hand of a man across the parlour made a movement to a heavy earthenware jug; the hand was Matthew Moon’s. Cope blinked askew at him, and he set the jug down again. The supervisor set his spectacles with great exactness on the bridge of his nose again, made the foolish familiar movement with his hand (but this time towards the merchant), and said: “A violent temper?... La, Mr. Moon!” Again, this happened a couple of days afterwards. The supervisor came out of his house that morning and was passing, with his customary greeting, down the croft. As he did so, Cole’s magpie fell to whistling to his short step the song of “Hey, Johnny Cope.” Cope stopped short, put his hand to his ear, and then deliberately walked back. He descended the narrow well of the clogger’s doorway, adjusted his spectacles, and craned his head forward towards the bird in the cage. “Your bird, Mr. Cole?” “Ay--ay--he’s mine,” the clogger replied timorously; the exciseman had never before entered his shop. “Extraordinarily imitative creatures,” Cope observed, putting his hand to the door of the cage. “See he doesn’t bite ye,” the clogger said tremulously. “Eh?” said the exciseman sharply; and then, glancing malevolently over his shoulder at the clogger, and showing his corner teeth like a dog, he seized the bird with a quick movement. “Some folk, however, cannot abide them,” he said. He drew the bird out, calmly wrung its neck, and flung the still palpitating body on the bench. Then he stepped to the door, mounted the steps, and turned. “Good morning, Mr. Cole,” he said, and passed again down the croft. A pigeon, homing to Pim o’ Cuddy at Wadsworth, carried a message that John Raikes had arrived in York, but brought no further news. Cope was now shunned by many, and the clogger contrived to dodge out of his sight whenever he passed. After the incident of the magpie, it began to go about that he was not a man, but a devil and a ghoul; nevertheless, he avoided none, and he was to be seen wherever men met for ale and talk and tobacco. As if a contagion emanated from him, he was allowed a corner to himself at the “Cross Pipes”; and the next thing was that he ceased to visit the “Pipes.” That came about in this way.