“Yes, I could see you were a bit popped,” said the vicar. “We all have our troubles, my lad; but it’s your true man that gets the strong hand of his anger and masters it.”
“You look as if you never had nought to make you waxy in your life,” said the workman. “I say, what do they call you?”
“Call me? A parson, I suppose.”
“No; I mean call you. What’s your name?”
“Oh! Selwood—Murray Selwood.”
“Murray Selwood,” said the questioner, repeating it to himself. “It’s a curus sort o’ name. Why didn’t they call you Tom, or Harry, or Sam when thou wast a bairn?”
“Can’t say,” said the vicar, smiling. “I was too young to have a voice in the matter.”
“You couldn’t help it, of course. Say, can yow play cricket?”
“Oh yes.”
“Bowl a bit, I suppose!”