“Right enough,” the landlord admitted; “but whether it’s a fault or a merit for Maniwel to take things so calm-like is a thing ’at a man can’t easy settle in his mind. Baldwin’s spread tales about ’em while there’s scarce a timber-yard i’ t’ country ’at’ll give ’em credit. They’ve clipped Joe his wings so as he dursn’t carry for ’em. Any man ’at supplies Maniwel is crossed off Baldwin’s books; and even them ’at’s given him a bit o’ work has been warned ’at if they go there for t’ little jobs they needn’t turn to Baldwin for them ’at’s too big for Maniwel to tackle. And now ’at he’s lost his brass, be it much or little, what chance has he?” Most of those present shook their heads in reluctant agreement with the landlord, but Swithin turned so that he could look Albert in the face, and snapped an aggressive—“Well?” “I was only meaning,” the landlord explained, “’at it doesn’t seem sort o’ natural for a man to be so cheerful i’ them circumstances, and to bear no grudge——” “Well, ’cos why is he cheerful and doesn’t bear no grudge?” questioned Swithin, whose manner in this examination was anything but cheerful, and who seemed to be seeking a vent for his over-charged feelings. “I’ll tell you ’cos why! Have you never heard tell o’ God’s will? Well, Maniwel believes ’at there’s a power at t’ back o’ that man ’at goes straight and tries to do his duty by his neighbour ’at not all the devils i’ hell can stand again’, let alone such little devils as this Inman.” His head fell as he mentioned the name, and not one of the company needed to be told that the seed Jack Pearce had dropped was already germinating. Old Ambrose knew it; but his soul had been fired by this new thought, and he broke out eagerly: “Aye, you’ve hit t’ nail fair on t’ head this time, Swith’n. I couldn’t ha’ put it better my-sen—not when I was i’ my gifted prime, and I shouldn’t wonder if it comes o’ you goin’ to t’ chapil, if not reg’lar, a toathri times i’ t’ year. I was a chapil-goer my-sen when I was a young fella and I call to mind a famous sermon by an owd man called Laycock—he was a local, but a grander preycher nor some ’at wore white chokers. It was i’ t’ days when they didn’t watter t’ Gospil down same as they do now, when they’re flayed o’ callin’ t’ devil hard names chance he happens to hear ’em. Owd Laycock pictur’d him as a bull in a mad hig ’at no man could stand up again’. But he tewk both t’ man and t’ bull down to t’ railway; and he set t’ man on t’ Scotchman and t’ bull atween t’ lines; and he opened t’ Scotchman’s throttle up yonder aboon t’ Junction; and eh, dear, there wasn’t as much wind left i’ that bull when t’ train had passed as there is i’ my poor bellowses at this minute. I made a set o’ grand verses, but they’re clean gone. It seems a sad waste o’ good stuff.” “It was a sadder waste of a good bull,” murmured one of the company whose business made him a judge of such matters.