"Where do you live?" I asked him.
"Where can a poor man live? Of course I live by the sea. I'm sorry to say I have a wife and children--no use denying it."
"How many children have you?"
"Four. One's got a crippled arm and the others--there's something wrong with all of them. It's not easy for a poor devil. My wife's ill, and a few days ago she thought she was dying and wanted Communion."
A sad note crept into his voice. But the note was false. He was telling me a pack of lies. When they came to look for him from the village, no Christian would have the heart to accuse a man with such a large and sick family. This, no doubt, was his meaning.
Man, oh man, thou art worse than a mouse!
I questioned him no further, but asked him to sing something, a ballad or a song, since we had nothing else to do.
"I've no heart to sing now," he replied. "Except possibly a hymn."
"All right; sing a hymn, then."
"Not now. I'd like to do you a favor, but--"