“No, to be sure,” agreed Sanders affably. “It was a wonderful piece of luck, that was.”
“It wasn’t luck, Maister Sanders,” said John impressively, “it was knowledge.”
And he walked on, with conscious pride in every line of face and figure, leaving his successor chuckling.
THE WORM THAT TURNED.
“Where be goin’, William?”
“Oh, I be jest steppin’ up to the Pure Drop.”
And William Faithfull brought back his abstracted gaze from the horizon, where it habitually rested when it was not required for practical purposes in the exercise of his profession, and fixed itself somewhat shamefacedly on his interlocutor.
He was a tall, loose-limbed man, of about forty, with an expression of countenance chronically dismal, except at such times when he was employed in some particularly genial task, such as making a coffin, or repairing the church trestles, when his neighbours averred that he became quite lively, and even whistled as he worked.
His crony now returned his glance with a jocular one, and slapped his thigh ecstatically.
“Well, I never seed such a chap! Faithfull by name and faithful by natur’—ah, sure you are. Why, ’tis nigh upon twelve year, bain’t it, since ye started coortin’ Martha Jesty?”