Beyond the mill rose the square tower of the church, with the churchyard behind it, a spray of tombstones and wooden headboards splashed up the hillside. A half dozen of beech trees framed the picture. Then the Angel heard a shuffling of feet and the gride of wheels behind him, and turning his head saw a man dressed in dirty brown rags and a felt hat grey with dust, who was standing with a slight swaying motion and fixedly regarding the Angelic back. Beyond him was another almost equally dirty, pushing a knife grinder's barrow over the bridge. "Mornin'," said the first person smiling weakly. "Goomorn'." He arrested an escaping hiccough. The Angel stared at him. He had never seen a really fatuous smile before. "Who are you?" said the Angel. The fatuous smile faded. "No your business whoaaam. Wishergoomorn." "Carm on:" said the man with the grindstone, passing on his way. "Wishergoomorn," said the dirty man, in a tone of extreme aggravation. "Carncher Answerme?" "Carm _on_ you fool!" said the man with the grindstone--receding. "I don't understand," said the Angel. "Donunderstan'. Sim'l enough. Wishergoomorn'. Willyanswerme? Wontchr? gemwishergem goomorn. Cusom answer goomorn. No gem. Haverteachyer." The Angel was puzzled. The drunken man stood swaying for a moment, then he made an unsteady snatch at his hat and threw it down at the Angel's feet. "Ver well," he said, as one who decides great issues. "_Carm_ on!" said the voice of the man with the grindstone--stopping perhaps twenty yards off. "You _wan_ fight, you ----" the Angel failed to catch the word. "I'll show yer, not answer gem's goomorn." He began to struggle with his jacket. "Think I'm drun," he said, "I show yer." The man with the grindstone sat down on the shaft to watch. "Carm on," he said. The jacket was intricate, and the drunken man began to struggle about the road, in his attempts to extricate himself, breathing threatenings and slaughter. Slowly the Angel began to suspect, remotely enough, that these demonstrations were hostile. "Mur wun know yer when I done wi' yer," said the drunken man, coat almost over his head. At last the garment lay on the ground, and through the frequent interstices of his reminiscences of a waistcoat, the drunken tinker displayed a fine hairy and muscular body to the Angel's observant eyes. He squared up in masterly fashion. "Take the paint off yer," he remarked, advancing and receding, fists up and elbows out. "Carm on," floated down the road. The Angel's attention was concentrated on two huge hairy black fists, that swayed and advanced and retreated. "Come on d'yer say? I'll show yer," said the gentleman in rags, and then with extraordinary ferocity; "My crikey! I'll show yer."