“In that hundred Jenkins, a tinker, with one dog—_unis canis_—holds, by the Grace of God and a habit he has of working hard, _unam hidam_—a large potato patch. Charmin’ fellow, Jenkins. Friend of ours. Now, who the dooce did Jenkins keep? … In the hundred of Callton is one charcoal-burner _irreligiosissimus homo_—a bit of a rip—but a thorough sportsman. _Ibi est ecclesia. Non multum_. Not much of a church, _quia_ because, _episcopus_ the Vicar irritated the Nonconformists _tunc et post et modo_—then and afterwards and now—until they built a cut-stone Congregational chapel with red brick facings that did not return itself—_defendebat se_—at four thousand pounds.” “Charcoal-burners, vicars, schismatics, and red brick facings,” groaned the Wheel. “But this is sheer blasphemy. What waters have they let in upon me?” “Floods from the gutters. Faugh, this light is positively sickening!” said the Cat, rearranging her fur. “We come down from the clouds or up from the springs, exactly like all other waters everywhere. Is that what’s surprising you?” sang the Waters. “Of course not. I know my work if you don’t. What I complain of is your lack of reverence and repose. You’ve no instinct of deference towards your betters—your heartless parody of the Sacred volume (the Wheel meant Domesday Book)—proves it.” “Our betters?” said the Waters most solemnly. “What is there in all this dammed race that hasn’t come down from the clouds, or——” “Spare me that talk, please,” the Wheel persisted. “You’d _never_ understand. It’s the tone—your tone that we object to.” “Yes. It’s your tone,” said the Black Rat, picking himself up limb by limb. “If you thought a trifle more about the work you’re supposed to do, and a trifle less about your precious feelings, you’d render a little more duty in return for the power vested in you—we mean wasted on you,” the Waters replied. “I have been some hundreds of years laboriously acquiring the knowledge which you see fit to challenge so light-heartedly,” the Wheel jarred. “Challenge him! Challenge him!” clamoured the little waves riddling down through the tail-race. “As well now as later. Take him up!” The main mass of the Waters plunging on the Wheel shocked that well-bolted structure almost into box-lids by saying: “Very good. Tell us what you suppose yourself to be doing at the present moment.” “Waiving the offensive form of your question, I answer, purely as a matter of courtesy, that I am engaged in the trituration of farinaceous substances whose ultimate destination it would be a breach of the trust reposed in me to reveal.”