“Won’t I go up though?” said she, laughing; “we’ll see, Master Joe; why, I can walk up by myself, if it comes to that; besides, any of the neighbours will give me a lift--or here’s Mr. Richard, or Mr. Warton. I’m sure--” “What’s that you’re saying, Miss Lucy? What am I to do, eh?” and the parson walked in just as I was going to speak. I was vexed at his just coming in, and taking the word out of my mouth. “Why I was telling Joe that you’ll stop and take me up the hill, if he leaves me behind; won’t you now, Mr. Warton?” “Leave you behind, indeed! here’s a pretty to do!” said he, laughing. “What in the world are you all talking about?” “About the wrestling and backsword play,” struck in Joe; “now she says--” “Well, now, I’ll leave it to Mr. Warton,” said Miss Lucy, interrupting him; “I know he won’t say it’s right for men to be fighting upon a high stage before all the country side.” “Stuff and nonsense with your fighting!” said Joe; “you know, Sir, very well that they are old English games, and we sets great store by them down here, though some of our folk as ought to know better does set their faces against them now-a-days.” “Yes, you know, Joe, that three or four clergymen have been preaching against them only last Sunday,” said Miss Lucy. “Then they ain’t the right sort, or they’d know better what to preach against. I don’t take all for Gospel that the parsons say, mind you,” said Joe. Miss Lucy looked shocked, but Mr. Warton only laughed. “Hullo, Joseph,” said he, “speaking evil of your spiritual pastors! However, I won’t say you’re altogether wrong. Parsons are but men.” “But, Sir,” said I, quite confidently, “I’m sure no clergyman can stand up for fighting and quarrelling.” “Of course not,” said he; “but what then?” “Well, Sir, these sports, as they call them, are just fighting, and nothing else, and lead to all sorts of quarrels and bad blood, and so--” “They don’t lead to nothing of the kind,” shouted Joe; “and you know nothing about it, Dick.” “Now, Joe, at our last feast,” said Miss Lucy, “didn’t Reuben Yates get his head broken, and his arms all black and blue at backsword play?” “Yes, and didn’t you and mother patch him up with yards of diachylum, and give him his supper every night for a week, to come and be doctored and lectured? Rube liked his suppers well enough, and didn’t mind the plastering and lecturing much; but if he don’t go in to-morrow for the young gamesters’ prize, my name ain’t Joe Hurst.” “Then he’ll be a very ungrateful, wicked fellow,” said Miss Lucy. “And you and mother won’t give him any more suppers or diachylum,” said Joe; “but I dare say he won’t break his heart if you don’t give him the preaching by itself. It does seem to me plaguy hard that the women won’t let a man get his own head broke quietly, when he has a mind to it.”