“Well, there’s some folk so constitooted, yo’ see, ’at they like to swim wi’ th’ tide an’ ’ll tak’ uncommon gooid care nevver to waste their puff swimmin’ up-stream. An’ then yo’ see, Jones has a large fam’ly, an’ my misses says ’at Mrs. Jones wi’ her rings an’ mantles, an’ feathers, an’ faldelals can do wi’ all ’at Jones can addle an’ more at th’ top on it.”
Now, of course talk of this kind in a village like Holmfirth not only circulates, it percolates and in time the gist and substance of it reached Mr. Jones. He had had hopes of Tom at one time. He had observed with satisfaction that this very intelligent-looking, well-behaved, well-spoken, neatly dressed young man had been an attentive listener and frequent worshipper at his own chapel, and that, on occasions, he had brought with him that quite-past-praying-for Ben Garside, a notorious mocker and a scoffer. Mr. Jones had accepted their presence as one of many just tributes to his zeal and eloquence. One had been rescued from the tepid waters of the Church, the other was a brand plucked from the burning depths of infidelity, and Mr. Jones had duly rejoiced.
And lo! now the neophytes had backslided and people “of a Sunday” would pass the inviting doors of Aenon Chapel and walk some two miles of a sultry or wintry afternoon to listen to one who was not only not one of the Covenant, but who was ordained neither by Bishop, Presbytery, nor Congress. He resolved to speak seriously to this erring sheep; and chancing to meet Tom one day descending the hill from Hinchliffe Mill to the village, stopped him, smiling affably and holding out a condescending hand:
“Good morning, Pinder, I’m glad to see you. How are we this morning?”
“Very well, thank you, Jones. How are you?”
“Ahem! Mr. Jones, if you please.”
“Certainly; Mr. Pinder, if you please.”
“Oh! certainly; you see in my position—”
“Exactly—and in mine.”
Now this was not a very promising beginning.