'Skinflint's a 'orse, mum, as Mosk 'ave put his shirt on.' Mrs Pansey wagged her plumes and groaned. 'I'm sadly afraid your husband is a son of perdition, Mrs Mosk. Put his shirt on Skinflint, indeed!' 'He's a good man to me, anyhow,' cried Mrs Mosk, plucking up spirit. 'Drink and betting,' continued Mrs Pansey, pretending not to hear this feeble defiance. 'What can we expect from a man who drinks and bets?' 'And associates with bad characters,' put in Cargrim, seizing his chance. 'That he don't, sir,' said Mrs Mosk, with energy. 'May I beg of you to put a name to one of 'em?' 'Jentham,' said the chaplain, softly. 'Who is Jentham, Mrs Mosk?' 'I know no more nor a babe unborn, sir. He's bin 'ere two weeks, and I did see him twice afore my back got so bad as to force me to bed. But I don't see why you calls him bad, sir. He pays his way.' 'Oh,' groaned Mrs Pansey, 'is it the chief end of man to pay his way?' 'It is with us, mum,' retorted Mrs Mosk, meekly; 'there ain't no denying of it. And Mr Jentham do pay proper though he _is_ a gipsy.' 'He's a gipsy, is he?' said Cargrim, alertly. 'So he says, sir; and I knows as he goes sometimes to that camp of gipsies on Southberry Heath.' 'Where does he get his money from?' 'Better not inquire into that, Mr Cargrim,' said Mrs Pansey, with a sniff. 'Oh, Mr Jentham's honest, I'm sure, mum. He's bin at the gold diggin's and 'ave made a trifle of money. Indeed, I don't know where he ain't been, sir. The four pints of the compass is all plain sailing to 'im; and his 'airbreadth escapes is too h'awful. I shivers and shudders when I 'ears 'em.' 'What is he doing here?' 'He's on business; but I don't know what kind. Oh, he knows 'ow to 'old 'is tongue, does Jentham.' 'He is a gipsy, he consorts with gipsies, he has money, and no one knows where he comes from,' summed up Cargrim. 'I think, Mrs Pansey, we may regard this man as a dangerous character.' 'I shouldn't be surprised to hear he was an Anarchist,' said Mrs Pansey, who knew nothing about the man. 'Well, Mrs Mosk, I hope we've cheered you up. I'll go now. Read this tract,' bestowing a grimy little pamphlet, 'and don't see too much of Mr Pendle.' 'But he comforts me,' said poor Mrs Mosk; 'he reads beautiful.' Mrs Pansey grunted. Bold as she was she did not like to speak quite plainly to the woman, as too free speech might inculpate Gabriel and bring the bishop to the rescue. Besides, Mrs Pansey had no evidence to bring forward to prove that Gabriel was in love with Bell Mosk. Therefore she said nothing, but, like the mariner's parrot, thought the more. Shaking out her dark skirts she rose to go, with another grunt full of unspoken suspicions. 'Good-day, Mrs Mosk,' said she, pausing at the door. 'When you are low-spirited send for me to cheer you up.'