“Wasn’t an out-and-out teetotaler?” I suggested, knowing Bibber.
Robert took courage: “Eh, by gom, no. It wasn’t hereabouts; it was down in Clayshire, where I were gardener to Muster Brown, that I seen ’im. I hadna been married above two-three year, and it were on a Sunday afternoon, that I heerd a terrible noise, and I says to my missus, ‘Polly,’ I says, ‘theer’s dogs worryin’ a cow:’ and hoo says, ‘Eh, yon’s not dogs, it’s children cryin’,’ hoo says: and I goes into the street, and theer were a crowd round Master Bibber’s door—he were skulemaster i’ th’ village skule—and theer were little Tommy Bibber among ’em, cryin’ fit to break ’is ’eart. ‘Eh, Muster Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘coom in,’ ’ee says; ‘theer’s father murdered Jenny, and ’ee’s a-gooin’ to murder us.’ So I goes in, o’ course, and theer were Jenny lyin’ on th’ floor in a faint, and theer were old Bibber, mad drunk, and dancin’ about, quite crazed like. ‘’Ello, Gaffer,’ I says, ‘what’s to do now?’ ‘Ah, Robert Diggle,’ ’ee says, ‘’appy to see a neighbour on the Sabbath day; let us engage in prayer.’ ‘Yo dom’d rascal,’ ah says, ‘it’s gin as yo’ve been engagin’ in,’ and ah stoops down to pick up Jenny, and all of a sudden Bibber maks for me, and tries to bite me i’ th’ arm. ‘By gom, Bibber,’ ah says, ‘if it’s fisticuffs yo want, yo shall ’ave ’em’; and ah fetches ’im one on th’ side o’ th’ yead, and down ’ee goes like a bullock. Ah picks ’im up again, and ah sheeks ’im till yo could ’ear ’is teeth rattle, and ah puts ’im i’ th’ cheer, and ah picks up Jenny, and puts ’er on th’ couch, and ah leaves ’em to it.”
“What did the school managers say to that?”
“Oh, they giv’ ’im the sack next week: but th’ folks i’ th’ village, they were all for Bibber—’ee were a smartish chap, when ’ee were sober—and Bibber, ’ee taks a cottage close by, and sets up a skule of ’is own, and gets all the children; and th’ young mon as gets th’ parish skule, ’ee hadna more than ’alf a dozen when ah comed away, and ah niver ’eerd how it ended. Skulemasters is like gardeners, I rackon; theer’s good and bad; but it taks all sorts to mak a world.”
While I was still pondering on the comprehensive wisdom of this apophthegm, the Rector appeared with apologies for delay. In his hand he bore an open letter, and his flushed face showed some excitement. “Come in the greenhouse,” he said, “there is just time for a cup of tea before your train, and I have a letter to show you.”
The conservatory opened into the dining-room, and there we found a table and chairs, and tea ready. “It’s from my nephew, Percy,” Chaunters said, waving the letter. “He is mad on music, and architecture, and is making a tour of the southern cathedrals this autumn; among others he has taken Sudchester, and I gave him an introduction to the organist.”
“What, old Thingumy in E flat?”
“Pedler? No: he has been dead some years: it’s that queer fellow Trackers; wrote a cantata called Boanerges, don’t you know? They had it at Birmingham, or Leeds, or somewhere last time. Here is the letter:
“He begins, like most travellers, with the hotel: ‘Why do all Cathedral towns have an hotel that was forgotten in the Reformation? Cranmer, Ridley, and Latimer used to lie here, and the place has not been done up since. The fish they gave me for dinner yesterday was bought for Cranmer’s dinner one Friday, and he wouldn’t have it because it wasn’t fresh. The head waiter used to be Ridley’s page, and he has the episcopal scorn for a layman. The chamber-maid was a buxom lass in Latimer’s time; she has lost the bloom of her youth, but retains her sixteenth century domestic methods;’ and so on; you know he is young, and out for a holiday.
“Then he gets to the flying buttresses and the Norman arches, but you are in a hurry: this is what I thought you would have time for: