So the Beatups agreed to forego their revenge on condition that the Rev. Mr. Sumption took Jerry away for the few days remaining of his leave, and did not have him back at the Horselunges on any future occasion. “You can’t hurt my boy without hurting your girl,” he told them, “so best let it alone and keep ’em apart. I’m sorry for what’s happened, and maybe Jerry is, and maybe he’s not. I reckon Satan’s got him.” “Reckon he has,” said Mrs. Beatup spitefully, “and reckon when Satan gits childern it’s cos faathers and mothers have opened the door. ’Tis a valiant thing fur a Christian minister not to know how to breed up his own young boy. But the shoemaker’s wife goes the worst shod, as they say, and reckon hell’s all spannelled up wud parsons’ children.” “Reckon you don’t know how to speak to a clergyman”—and the Rev. Mr. Sumption turned haughtily from the wife to the husband, who was, however, big with an attack on Sunday observance, and no discussion could go forward till he had been delivered of it. In the end the matter was settled, and the parting was fairly friendly. The Beatups had a queer affection for their pastor mingled with their disrespect, and admired his muscle if they despised his ministrations. The proceedings ended in an adjournment to the stables, where Mr. Sumption gave sound and professional advice on a sick mare. 8 Poor Ivy felt as if she could never hold up her head again. The very efforts she had made to avoid contempt had resulted in bringing it down on her in double measure. Garbled stories of her misadventure ran about the Street. It was said that she had been walking out with two men at once, that Seagrim had jilted her because of Jerry and Jerry tried to do her in because of Seagrim. There were other stories, too, some more creditable, and some less—and they all found their way to Worge, where they provoked the anger of her father, the querulousness of her mother, the shrinking contempt of Nell, and the loutish sniggers of Harry and Zacky.