It happened on New Year’s Eve that a varied company assembled at the “Green Man” according to ancient custom. Here were Inspector Chown, Mr. Chapple, Mr. Blee, Charles Coomstock, with many others; and the assembly was further enriched by the presence of the bell-ringers. Their services would be demanded presently to toll out the old year, to welcome with joyful peal the new; and they assembled here until closing time that they might enjoy a pint of the extra strong liquor a prosperous publican provided for his customers at this season.
The talk was of Blanchard, and Mr. Blee, provided with a theme which always challenged his most forcible diction, discussed Will freely and without prejudice.
“I ’most goes in fear of my life, I tell ’e; but thank God ’t is the beginning of the end. He’ll spread his wings afore spring and be off again, or I doan’t knaw un. Ess fay, he’ll depart wi’ his fiery nature an’ horrible ideas ’pon manuring of land; an’ a gude riddance for Monks Barton, I say.”
“’Mazing ’t is,” declared Mr. Coomstock, “that he should look so black all times, seeing the gude fortune as turns up for un when most he wants it.”
“So ’t is,” admitted Billy. “The faace of un weer allus sulky, like to the faace of a auld ram cat, as may have a gude heart in un for all his glowerin’ eyes. But him! Theer ban’t no pleasin’ un. What do he want? Surely never no man ’s failed on his feet awftener.”
“’T is that what ’s spoilin’ un, I reckon,” said Mr. Chappie. “A li’l ill-fortune he wants now, same as a salad o’ green stuff wants some bite to it. He’d grumble in heaven, by the looks of un. An’ yet it do shaw the patience of God wi’ human sawls.”
“Ess, it do,” answered Mr. Blee; “but patience ban’t a virtue, pushed tu far. Justice is justice, as I’ve said more ’n wance to Miller an’ Blanchard, tu, an’ a man of my years can see wheer justice lies so clear as God can. For why? Because theer ban’t room for two opinions. I’ve give my Maker best scores an’ scores o’ times, as we all must; but truth caan’t alter, an’ having put thinking paarts into our heads, ’t is more ’n God A’mighty’s Self can do to keep us from usin’ of’em.”
“A tremenjous thought,” said Mr. Chapple.
“So ’t is. An’ what I want to knaw is, why should Blanchard have his fling, an’ treat me like dirt, an’ ride rough-shod awver his betters, an’ scowl at the sky all times, an’ nothin’ said?”
“Providence doan’t answer a question just ’cause we ’m pleased to ax wan,” said Abraham Chown. “What happens happens, because ’t is foreordained, an’ you caan’t judge the right an’ wrong of a man’s life from wan year or two or ten, more ’n you can judge a glass o’ ale by a tea-spoon of it. Many has a long rope awnly to hang themselves in the end, by the wonnerful foresight of God.”