Tom followed the Porter wondering to the office. The Master was closeted with a tall, broad-shouldered, sparer, man, with clean shaven face, keen grey eyes, and hair tinged with grey at tee tell-tale temples. He sat by the table, a tankard of ale at his side, and his hand swinging his riding whip idly to and fro. "This is the lad, then, Mr. Redfearn wrote to me about? He seems a likely lad enough, but somewhat overgrown. How old are you boy?" "Rising fifteen, sir." Mr. Tinker eyed the youth from head to foot and turned him round and round, feeling the muscles of his arm and the thews of his thigh and calf as though he was appraising a horse at the Cattle Fair. "Sound in wind and limb, I should judge," he concluded, "but his age is against him. A lad should go into a mill young, Master, before his bones are set and his fingers stiff, if he's to be any good. I'm not in your Union or I would have seen to this. The Guardians have no business to keep a big lumbering lout of a lad lazying about the House and eating his head off. It's demoralising to the lad and is enough to pauperize a whole neighbourhood. What's his name?" "Pinder sir, Tom Pinder," answered the Master, and, whilst Tom stared with all his eyes on the stranger, wondering vastly who he might be and what this interview might portend and wondering too if Workhouse Jack would remember to feed his rabbit and find a fresh sod of grass for his lark, the Master made apology for Tom's height and girth. "You see, Mr. Tinker, Pinder's been kept longer than usual. There's a sort of mystery about him, and both the Chairman and Mr. Black have taken uncommon interest in him. Indeed the Schoolmaster's so wrapt up in him he couldn't have been more if th' lad had been his own son, which I'd almost think he was myself if it wasn't so ridiculous. But there's never no telling, is there, Mr. Tinker? these quiet uns is often as deep an' dark as a pit, bu' we're all human, eh?" And Master winked a wink meant to be a summary of profound knowledge of the universal fallibility of the human race. But Mr. Tinker was not a man to be winked at or joked with, nor apparently was he disposed to discuss the tempting topic of man's--and woman's--depravity--with a Workhouse Master, the sole audience a Workhouse foundling. "Pinder,"--he said musingly, strumming meditatively on the table, and somewhat brusquely declining the Master's hospitable offer to have in another jug of October ale, or something shorter if a cordial for the stomach would be more acceptable.--"Pinder--Tom Pinder? it isn't a this country name. There was a Pinder at Marsden, a clothier in a small way--took to drink, banked, and showed his creditors a clean pair of heels; but you wouldn't have a Marsden brat in this Union."