Old Lawrie received it in blank astonishment.
“Well, well,” he said. “Wants to be a parson, does he? Is it the clothes he’s after? He was always a great one for dressing up.”
“I think it is more serious with him than that. I think it is very serious.”
Old Lawrie thought for a long time and tugged at his beard, while Francis gazed at him and said to himself what a fine face the old fellow had.
“Do you mind,” said the old man at length, “do you mind if I read you some poetry?” He took up a scrapbook and put spectacles on his beak-like nose and read in a great voice:
Two shepherds on the windy fell
Sat crackin’ in the peep o’ day.
They heard the tolling o’ the bell
That marked a soul had passed away.
And white beard to old grey beard said,
“Another soul has passed away.”
But old grey beard this answer made,
“The night is flowering into day.”
“Nay, nay,” said white beard, “that’s not true,
’Tis day that’s sinking into night.”
“Night into day!”—and high words flew.
They cursed and swore with all their might.
They argued on that windy fell
And came to blows. . . . The twilight sped.
The distant tolling of the bell
Told the great sun a man was dead.