"O' course," sneered Sim. "That's the way. That's your cunning priest coming into your house to lead silly women captive, and sew pillows to their armholes." "Go on wi' yer blather," cried the landlord. "Go on, indeed," continued Sim. "That's their way. He's a regular Jesooit, he is, and your home wean't soon be your own. He's gettin' ivery woman in the place under his thumb. He begins wi' Miss Eve theer at the house, and Daisy Banks. Then he's gotten howd o' my missus. Here's Mrs Glaire allus coming and fetching him out wi' her in the pony shay, and now he's gotten howd o' your owd woman, and she's sendin' him pounds o' boother. It was allus the way wi' them cunning priests: they allus get over the women, and then they do what they like wi' the men. No matter how strong they are, down they come just like Samson did wi' Delilah. It was allus so, and as it was in the beginning is now and ever shall be world without end." "Amen," said Jacky Budd, coming in at the back door. "Gie's a gill o' ale, Robinson. I'm 'bout bunt up wi' thirst. Hallo, Slee, what! are yow preaching agen?" "Never mind," said Sim, sulkily. "I should ha' thowt parson would ha' fun you in ale, now." "Not he," said Jacky. "Drinks it all his sen. He's got a little barrel o' Robinson's best i' the house, too." "Ho, ho, ho!" laughed Sim, holding his sides and stooping. "I say, Jacky, put some new basses in one o' the pews for Mester Robinson, Esquire, as is going to come reg'lar to church now. That's the way they do it: `Send me in a small barrel o' your best ale, Mr Robinson,' he says, `and I shall be happy to see you at church.'" "If yow use up all yer wind, Sim Slee," said the landlord, sturdily, "yow wean't hev none left to lay down the law wi' at the meeting to-night." Volume 1, Chapter XVII. MRS GLAIRE MAKES PLANS. Poor Mrs Glaire was in trouble about her fowls, who seemed possessed of a great deal of nature strongly resembling the human. She had a fine collection of noble-looking young Brahma cockerels, great massive fellows, youthful, innocent, sheepish, and stupid. They were intended for exhibition, and their mistress expected a prize for the birds, which had dwelt together in unity, increasing in bulk and brilliancy of plumage, and had never looked a hen in the face since the day they forsook their mamma in the coop. And now, by mishap, a wanton young pullet had flown up on to the wall that divided them from the poultry yard, and just cried, "Took--took-- took!" before flying down. That was sufficient: a battle royal began amongst the brothers directly, and when Mrs Glaire went down to feed them she found two birds nearly dead, the rest all ragged as to their feathers, bleeding as to their combs and wattles, and still fighting in a heavy lumbering way, but so weary that they could only take hold of one another with their beaks and give feeble pecks at their dripping feathers.