"Suppose it ain't nickel at all. I never heard of any on Dartmoor. They'll be down on you, Pezzack, for the money, howling at ye like so many wolves, and if you can't pay there's prison. What are you going to say for yourself? You can't drag me into it. If I tell you there ain't a penn'orth of nickel down under you can't touch me. If you had proof against me you couldn't use it, for your own sake. You'd have to keep your mouth shut, for the sake of your wife and the family what's coming. It's a fine thing to have a wife, and a fine thing to be expecting a child, but it's a better thing to be sure of your position. It ain't wise to marry when you're in debt, and when you've got a wife, and are depending upon a man for your living, you can't make an enemy of that man. I reckon we're on top. Bide here a bit and rest yourself."
They were on the summit of one of the big rounded hills. The heather was stiff with frost and seemed to grate against their boots. The weather had changed completely while they had been coming up from the chapel. Already the stars were covered over with dense clouds which were dropping snowflakes. There was nothing in sight, and the only sound was the eternal roar of the Tavy in the distance. Helmen Barton was below. The house was invisible, but the smell of its peat fire ascended. Pendoggat was breathing noisily through his nose, while Pezzack stood before him utterly exhausted, his weak knees trembling and knocking against each other, and his mouth open like a dog.
"Why have you done this to me, Mr. Pendoggat?" he gasped at length.
"To make a man of you. If I have a puppy I make a dog out of him with a whip. When I get hold of a weak man I try to knock the weakness out of him."
"Was it because I didn't talk proper about 'ell?" sobbed the frightened minister.
"Come on," cried Pendoggat roughly. "Let's have a bout, man. It's a fine night for it. Put out your arms. I'll be the making of you yet. Here's to get your blood warm."
He raised his Bible and brought it down on Pezzack's head, crushing his hat in.
Eli stumbled aside, crying out: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what you're doing. 'Itting me with the 'oly word. Let me go home, Mr. Pendoggat. My wife is waiting for me."
Pendoggat was too far gone to listen. He followed the wretched man, hitting at him with the big book, driving him along the top of the hill with resounding blows. Eli could not escape; he was unable to run, and he was dazed; he kept on stumbling and bleating, until another good blow on the head settled his business and sent him sprawling into the heather.
"Get up, man," shouted Pendoggat. "Get up and make a bout of it;" but Eli went on lying flat, sobbing and panting, and trying to pray for his persecutor.