Robert pondered whether the law of slander, about which the working-man is (fortunately) very timorous, would “cop” him, in Cheshire phrase. “Ah wudna say a word agin ’im i’ that case,” he said: “but ’ee were a rum ’un.” “Wasn’t an out-and-out teetotaler?” I suggested, knowing Bibber. Robert took courage: “Eh, by gom, no. It wasn’t hereabouts; it was down in Clayshire, where I were gardener to Muster Brown, that I seen ’im. I hadna been married above two-three year, and it were on a Sunday afternoon, that I heerd a terrible noise, and I says to my missus, ‘Polly,’ I says, ‘theer’s dogs worryin’ a cow:’ and hoo says, ‘Eh, yon’s not dogs, it’s children cryin’,’ hoo says: and I goes into the street, and theer were a crowd round Master Bibber’s door--he were skulemaster i’ th’ village skule--and theer were little Tommy Bibber among ’em, cryin’ fit to break ’is ’eart. ‘Eh, Muster Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘coom in,’ ’ee says; ‘theer’s father murdered Jenny, and ’ee’s a-gooin’ to murder us.’ So I goes in, o’ course, and theer were Jenny lyin’ on th’ floor in a faint, and theer were old Bibber, mad drunk, and dancin’ about, quite crazed like. ‘’Ello, Gaffer,’ I says, ‘what’s to do now?’ ‘Ah, Robert Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘’appy to see a neighbour on the Sabbath day; let us engage in prayer.’ ‘Yo dom’d rascal,’ ah says, ‘it’s gin as yo’ve been engagin’ in,’ and ah stoops down to pick up Jenny, and all of a sudden Bibber maks for me, and tries to bite me i’ th’ arm. ‘By gom, Bibber,’ ah says, ‘if it’s fisticuffs yo want, yo shall ’ave ’em’; and ah fetches ’im one on th’ side o’ th’ yead, and down ’ee goes like a bullock. Ah picks ’im up again, and ah sheeks ’im till yo could ’ear ’is teeth rattle, and ah puts ’im i’ th’ cheer, and ah picks up Jenny, and puts ’er on th’ couch, and ah leaves ’em to it.” “What did the school managers say to that?” “Oh, they giv’ ’im the sack next week: but th’ folks i’ th’ village, they were all for Bibber--’ee were a smartish chap, when ’ee were sober--and Bibber, ’ee taks a cottage close by, and sets up a skule of ’is own, and gets all the children; and th’ young mon as gets th’ parish skule, ’ee hadna more than ’alf a dozen when ah comed away, and ah niver ’eerd how it ended. Skulemasters is like gardeners, I rackon; theer’s good and bad; but it taks all sorts to mak a world.” While I was still pondering on the comprehensive wisdom of this apophthegm, the Rector appeared with apologies for delay. In his hand he bore an open letter, and his flushed face showed some excitement. “Come in the greenhouse,” he said, “there is just time for a cup of tea before your train, and I have a letter to show you.”