“Yes; I’m best with the ball.”
“Round hand?”
“Yes, and pretty sharp.”
“Give’s yer hand, parson, I like yow, hang me if I don’t; and I’ll come and hear you fust Sunday as you preaches.”
The two men joined hands, and the grasp was long, earnest, and friendly, for the Reverend Murray Selwood, coming down freshly to his new living amongst people who had been described to him as little better than savages, felt that he had won one rough heart to his side, and was gladdened by the frank open gaze that met his own.
It was a different man that walked on now by his side, talking freely, in the rough independent way of the natives of his part; people who never thought of saying Sir, or touching their hat to any man—save and excepting the tradespeople, who contrived a salute to the wealthier families or clergy of the neighbourhood. He laughed as he talked of the peculiarities of Jacky this or Sammy that, and was in the midst of a speech about how parson would find “some of ’em rough uns to deal wi’,” when he stopped short, set his teeth, drew in a long breath, and was in an instant an altered man.
The Reverend Murray Selwood saw and interpreted the change in a moment.
“Oh, ’tis love, ’tis love, ’tis love that makes the world go round,” he said to himself; and he looked curiously at the little group upon which they had suddenly come on turning round by a group of weather-beaten, grey-lichened rocks.
There were two girls, one of whom was more than ankle-deep in a soft patch of bog, while the other was trying very hard to reach her and relieve her from her unpleasant predicament.
Danger there was none: a good wetting from the amber-hued bog water being all that need be feared; but as the corner by the rocks was turned it was evident that the spongy bog was now rapidly giving way, and if help were to be afforded it must be at once.