“Dear me, dear me,” said Mr. Jones. “This is worse than I thought. I am afraid you are all astray, my young friend. I beseech you consider your ways, reflect on the danger you are in, the perils that compass you round about. Above all pray without ceasing, pray for light and guidance.”
“I do pray, Mr. Jones. I pray every day; I pray at my bed-side, I pray at my work, in my daily walks.”
“Ah! But prayer without faith is but a beating of the air. You must have an intercessor with your offended God, a sacrifice for His outraged laws.”
“Mr. Jones, I respect your zeal and think you mean well. I do sacrifice. I offer myself as a living sacrifice. It is all I have to offer. When the great account is made up my life must plead for me. If that will not avail, I have little confidence in any other plea. But I did not seek this interview, Mr. Jones nor choose this topic, or is this, main street of Holmfirth, the best place for such discussion as we have drafted into. My main business to-day is to determine how much a bale I can afford to give for the best Spanish wool that is the part of my Master’s business that I am intent on just now. If I remember that it is my Master’s business, I shan’t be so far wrong, shall I? And I’m going to try to make a bargain with a Jew wool-stapler, and I’m no more afraid of being overreached than if he were a Christian. But come up to Co-op Mill, and have a fling at my class you’ll be made heartily welcome. Fix your own time, but come.”
“God forbid,” said Mr. Jones, as Tom darted into the railway station, just in time to catch the Huddersfield train.
Jabez Tinker was as little pleased as his spiritual guide with the rumours to which he could not well be deaf, concerning the success of the novel enterprise of his former apprentice. From the first he had predicted disaster for the venture. It was the crack-brained scheme of an addle-pated enthusiast and a misguided, self-opinionated youth. That was his opinion, and he did not keep his opinion to himself. But as time went on and the bankruptcy he had foretold did not overwhelm the Co-op Mill; as old and tried hands who had been with him for years, one after the other, left Wilberlee for the small concern higher up the stream, Jabez began to feel the irritation of the prophet whose vaticinations have come to nought. It would not be fair to say that Jabez begrudged Tom and Ben their success. That success could scarcely be considered to have injured him in his business. The operations, the rise or fall of Co-op Mill, were in his eyes beneath anything but contemptuous notice. But he could not conceal from himself that he would have better pleased to have seen Tom coming to him, cap in hand, to sue for reinstatement at Wilberlee. He had a sort of rankling resentment against Tom for refusing his own proffer of protection and advancement. When he had made that offer he had plumbed himself on his magnanimity—and, indeed, it was a generous offer. Jabez Tinker’s pride was wounded, and Jabez Tinker was a proud man.
One day he chanced to meet Nehemiah Wimpenny, the lawyer. It was near the time for the elections to the Local Board, of which Mr. Tinker had been so long the chairman and autocrat that the other members of the Board might just as well have stopped at home as attended the monthly meetings. Wimpenny was the clerk.
“Well, we shall soon have the elections upon us, Mr. Tinker, and I suppose you have heard the news. Rum start, isn’t it? What next, I wonder.”
“I’ve heard no particular news that I’m aware of, Wimpenny. I’m no gad-about, as you know.”
“Ah, well! It’s an old saying that we’ve to go from home to hear news, especially if it happens to concern ourselves. Not that this is likely to give you much uneasiness.”