“He don’t look like a poet—not when he’s unshaved.” “I’ll tell you what—it may be his cures, and the way to strike wounds and white swellings.” “Ah! there, that is more likely.” And this purchase of penny pots of ink continued for thirty-five years. At the rate of ten a year, that would be three hundred and fifty pots of black ink. It was amazing. For what could he want so much ink? It was also ascertained that he sent by the carrier periodically to the market town for copy-books, and had them out in packets of a dozen at a time. What could he be putting into all those copy-books? At last the mystery came out—not indeed to the whole parish, but into the ear of the rector was it revealed. One Saturday evening the parson was informed that Mr. Coombe desired to speak with him very privately. The tailor was shown into the study. He brought with him a huge parcel strapped to his back. Of this he relieved himself and placed it on the table. “There, sir,” said he, “my life’s labour is accomplished. Now it is for the world.” “What is it, Mr. Coombe?” “You shall see, sir, you shall see. For thirty-five years have I been engaged on it every night. I have gone over the work most carefully three and four times, and I am quite certain that there is not an error in it. It has been my great labour to be strictly correct. I do not believe there is a _the_ wrong. I began it thirty-five years agone last Friday, and last Friday I concluded it. Every man has his proper vocation and work to do. I found mine thirty-five years ago, and I have laboured at it unflaggingly since. It is done, and when the Lord pleases to call me, I shall be ready to go. But, sir—I don’t mean to deny it—I should ha’ been terrible sorry to ha’ submitted to be called away before I’d done the job.” “I congratulate you on having accomplished what I am sure is a useful task. But what is it, Mr. Coombe?” “You shall see, sir. You shall see.” He went to his parcel and undid the string. There appeared an enormous pile of copy-books. He took from the heap two of them, and brought them to the rector. “There, sir,” said he, “if you’d had this you would not have made—you’ll excuse my saying it—such a terrible lot o’ mistakes in quoting Scripture. It is, sir—IT IS—IT IS”—he raised himself and rubbed his hair up, then smoothed his fresh-shaven chin—“it is, sir, a dictionary of every word in Scripture, so that you have but to look out the word, and then you find where it comes in any book of the whole Bible.” His face glowed with triumph. “Just think, sir, what a boon to ministers of the Gospel! Just think what a help to teachers! How ever can English folk have got along for all this time without such an aid as this? It is better, sir, this, than conquering the Russians and taking of Sebastopol. It is grander this than Columbus discovering the New World. Now, what _do_ you think, sir?” “But, my dear Mr. Coombe——!”