Every one laughed at these words. Harry Piper, the speaker, was a general favourite, because his jokes were level with their comprehension, and he did not scruple to make a butt of himself. The sexton, a solemn man, with such command over his features that not a muscle twitched when a fly walked on his nose, even he unbent, and creases formed about his mouth. ’Now look here,’ said Piper, ’if we don’t take the matter in hand these two churchwardens will be doing each other a mischief. Let us reconcile them. A better day than this for the purpose cannot be found.’ ’Mr. Piper’s sentiments are eminently Christian,’ said the Rector, looking round; then qualifying his statement with, ’that is, as far as I can judge without going further into the matter.’ ’Will Master Nanspian be here?’ asked one. ’I know that he will,’ answered the cattle-jobber, ’but not the other, unless he be fetched.’ ’Well, let him be fetched.’ ’That is,’ said the Parson, ’if he will come.’ There was then, leaning against the inn door, a ragged fellow with a wooden leg, and a stump of an arm into which a hook was screwed—a fellow with a roguish eye, a bald head, and a black full beard. Tom Crout lived on any little odd jobs given him by the farmers to keep him off the parish. He had lost his leg and arm through the explosion of a gun when out poaching. Now he drove bullocks to pasture, cows to be milked, sheep to the common, and wired rabbits. This was the proper man to send after Taverner Langford. ’You may ride my pony,’ said the cattle-jobber, ’and so be quicker on your way.’ ’And,’ said the guardian of the poor, ’you shall dine on the leavings and drink the heel-taps for your trouble.’ As he went on his way, Crout turned over in his mind how he was to induce Taverner Langford to come to the dinner. Crout was unable to comprehend how any man needed persuasion to draw him to goose, beef, and plum-pudding. On his way he passed Hillary Nanspian, in his badger-skin waistcoat with red lappets, riding his strawberry mare. He was on his way to the ’Ring of Bells.’ ’Whither away, Crout?’ shouted Hillary. ’Out to Broadbury, after Farmer Burneby’s sheep that have broken.’ Then he rode on. When he reached the gate of Langford, he descended. At once the black Newfoundland house-dog became furious, and flew at him, and with true instinct snapped at the calf of flesh, not the leg of wood. Tom Crout yelled and swore, and made the best of his way to the door, where Taverner and Mrs. Veale appeared to call off the dog. ’It is a shame to keep dogs like that, vicious brutes ready to tear a Christian to tatters.’ ’I didn’t suppose you was a Christian, hearing your heathenish oaths,’ said Mrs. Veale; ’and as to the tatters, they were there before the dog touched you.’