"No, that aw wouldn't. Not if they'd gi' me all Wrigley Mill to booit--a nasty, greasy,"--I think Mary meant unctuous--"slimy, creeping, sneck-liftin', underhand tittle-tattler. But it does go agen th' grain to think 'at sich as him s'ud be thrusten forrard an' stand i' th' high places o' th' synagogue, so to speak, when a proper, straightforrard, guid-hearted lad like y'er Jim, 'at wouldn't hurt a flea, 'is put dahn as nowt. Aw tell yo' what it is, Abe, aw've wintered an' summered some th' fo'k i' Diggle 'at nivver missed nother Chapel nor Sunday School sin Mrs. Wrigley too' up wi' th' Methodies, an' all aw can say is if God Almighty cannot see through 'em, it's time some'un up an' oppened His e'en for Him." "Don't yo' fret yourself, Mary," I assured her. "God is not mocked, an' I'd rather stand with Jim on the last day than with many a Wrigley Mill saint, aye, even if he'd a pint pot in his hand." And so Mary's wrath simmered down, though from the way she gave the occasional slap with her thible at the porridge as she stirred it on the hob, I judged that in imagination she was venting her wrath on the unconscious Matthy. Jim sauntered in just as Mary and I drew to table, and mollified his mother by the hearty way he handled his spoon. "There's nowt like a gooid sermon an' a gooid walk 'at after it for gi'ing' a man a relish for his victuals," he declared. "An' if yo' want a gooid sarmon wi'in ten mile o' Wrigley Mill yo' mun go to Pole Moor for it. What do'st say, mother, if we join th' Baptists?" "Tha were browt up Church," reminded his mother. "Aw'm noan so sure they'n getten th' rooit o' th' matter," quoth Jim, wagging his head gravely, as he scraped the sides of the bowl with his spoon. "Aw'm noan fully decided i' my own mind. It tak's a deal o' thinkin' ovver, an' aw think it 'ud nobbut be fair to tak' St. Chad's and Pole Moor turn an' turn abaat till I'm fair settled one road or t'other--th' church i' t' mornin' an' t' chapel at neet. What says ta, Abe?" "Why, you never get up in time for morning service," I said. "Weel, when aw missed th' Church, aw could mak' up for it bi stoppin' to th' prayer meetin' at neet." "It's a far cry to Pole Moor," I objected. "Not it, marry. Your Ruth says there's folk go to Pole Your fro Meltham an' owd 'uns at that." "Oh! If Ruth wants you to go…." "Nay, nay, not 'oo. 'Oo only mentioned it casual like," I shrugged my shoulders. I had my own notions, I daresay Jim had in later years.