Scarcely had he time to turn his head towards the speaker, and scan the group of lazy loafers congregated by the roadside at the corner of Midden Harbour, before he was saluted with a shower of stones, which fell on startled Jack, rattled on the ancient gig, and one of them, at any rate, made an unnecessary indentation in his silk hat, whose long term of faithful service demanded more respectful treatment. Waxing indignant at this gratuitous and cowardly attack, he turned to expostulate with the lawless batch of wastrels, when a well-aimed brickbat from the hand of Black Morris struck him on the cheek, and, after drawing a stream of blood, fell into the body of the gig. Mr. Clayton, maintaining his presence of mind, brought down his whip upon the withers of the startled pony, which broke into a gallop, and bore him through the village with the crimson token of the outrage still wet upon his face.
When he drove up to Farmer Houston’s gate, quite a knot of villagers gathered around him, alarmed and indignant at the scurvy treatment he had received. He lifted up the quarter brick which had dealt the ugly wound, and said, with a smile, for he was a hero in his way, “That’s the mischievous gentleman that did it, and you see, like a true soldier, I carry my scars in front.”
“Oh, what a shame!” “Who did it?” “Who threw it?” were the exclamations of the farmer and his household, as warm water and sticking-plaster were being provided. The prudent preacher, however, in the spirit of his Master, thought of the probable results to Black Morris if he mentioned his name, and so he contented himself with a general statement that he had been maltreated by a set of scoundrels at Midden Harbour.
Well done, Mr. Clayton! Your kindly forbearance will bear richer fruit than you imagine, and, like many another persecution meekly borne for the Master’s sake, will in no wise lose its reward. After the needful attention had been bestowed on his wounded cheek, and a few cups of tea had refreshed his inner man, Theophilus was himself again: and when Nathan Blyth, Old Adam Olliver, and Farmer Houston were closeted with him in close committee on the new chapel, he was able to guide their deliberations with his accustomed skill.
The first, and, indeed, the crucial point was the question of a site. The entire village, with the exception of the undesirable locality of Midden Harbour, was the property of Squire Fuller; and the very first step was to ask that gentleman to sell or lease them a plot of ground suitable to the requirements of the case. Their hopes of success were by no means strong; but Mr. Clayton, who was never much given to beating about the bush, proposed that they should form themselves into a deputation, and see the squire on the subject.
“It’s no use going to the steward,” said Farmer Houston, “for he hates the Methodists like poison, and would set his foot on us if he could.”
“I’m willing to try the squire,” said Natty Blyth, “if you think it’s best; but I don’t expect he’ll be particularly glad to see me, seeing that Master Phil’s unlucky fancy has angered his father with me and mine.”
“Nivver mind that,” chimed in Old Adam; “t’ aud squire knoas it’s neean o’ your deein’, and as for its bein’ unlikely, he’ll be fooast te deea as God tells ’im, an’ if it’s His will ’at we sud hev a chapel, it isn’t Squire Fuller nor t’ devil aback on ’im ’at can hinder uz! Let’s pray aboot it. We’ll fost ax the Lord, ’at hez t’ hearts ov all men in His hands, an’ then ax t’ squire, an’ leeave t’ rest wi’ God.”
This admirable hint was at once acted on, and Mr. Clayton asked the old hedger to engage in prayer. Adam went straight to the point at once—a practice not too common, as many a heavy and listless prayer-meeting can testify.