But the dissension had placed them on the horns of a dilemma, and Bishop Bitton had no liking for speech on the subject. He muttered something in answer to the precentor’s injudicious question, and turned to Hugh, who was standing a short way from the group.
“There is thy penny for thee,” said the bishop, beckoning to him, “and now tell me, sir apprentice, whether thou art a good lad, and learning thy craft fairly and truly, so that in time thou mayest have thy share in this great work of ours?”
Hugh coloured crimson, and looked down, and Elyas came to his rescue.
“He hath not been with me yet three months, my lord, so please you, and half that time hath been ill; but he is the child of the wood-carver of whom I spoke, and, if he is industrious, I have good hope he will credit his father.”
“And what part wilt thou choose for thy share?” asked the bishop, with a wave of his gloved hand towards roof and walls.
“The corbels, my lord,” answered Hugh, boldly. Bitton looked delighted.
“So thou hast caught our words, and wilt bespeak the work thyself? Well, I shall not forget. Learn with all thy might, and, who knows, some day thy carving may help to decorate this our Church of St. Peter’s?”
After this, when the bishop caught sight of Hugh, he never failed to speak to him and ask how his learning fared. And hearing from Elyas that the boy could read and write, he arranged that on Sundays he should come to the Kalendarhay, where one of the Kalendar brothers instructed him.
When Twelfth-Night was over, Hugh went back to the yard, where work was expected to go on vigorously after the feasting and mirth of that season, which was loud and boisterous. On the eve the town was full of minstrels, who carried huge bowls of wassail—ale, sugar, nutmegs, and roasted apples—to the houses of the well-to-do inhabitants, and Wat, as it may be conceived, had his full share in these doings. In the country there was a curious pagan ceremony kept up in Devonshire on this night, for at the farms the farmer and his men would carry a great pitcher of cider into the orchard, and choosing the best bearing tree, walk solemnly round it, and drink its health three times.
Master Gervase grew somewhat red and shamefaced when his wife reminded him that he had often been the pitcher-bearer on his father’s farm.