“Religion is a thing that don’t trouble ME much,” remarked Newman; “and as for what happens to you after death, it’s a thing I believe in leavin’ till you comes to it—there’s no sense in meetin’ trouble ’arfway. All the things they tells us may be true or they may not, but it takes me all my time to look after THIS world. I don’t believe I’ve been to church more than arf a dozen times since I’ve been married—that’s over fifteen years ago now—and then it’s been when the kids ’ave been christened. The old woman goes sometimes and of course the young ’uns goes; you’ve got to tell ’em something or other, and they might as well learn what they teaches at the Sunday School as anything else.”
A general murmur of approval greeted this. It seemed to be the almost unanimous opinion, that, whether it were true or not, “religion” was a nice thing to teach children.
“I’ve not been even once since I was married,” said Harlow, “and I sometimes wish to Christ I ’adn’t gorn then.”
“I don’t see as it matters a dam wot a man believes,” said Philpot, “as long as you don’t do no ’arm to nobody. If you see a poor b—r wot’s down on ’is luck, give ’im a ’elpin’ ’and. Even if you ain’t got no money you can say a kind word. If a man does ’is work and looks arter “is ’ome and ’is young ’uns, and does a good turn to a fellow creature when ’e can, I reckon ’e stands as much chance of getting into ’eaven—if there is sich a place—as some of these ’ere Bible-busters, whether ’e ever goes to church or chapel or not.”
These sentiments were echoed by everyone with the solitary exception of Slyme, who said that Philpot would find out his mistake after he was dead, when he would have to stand before the Great White Throne for judgement!
“And at the Last Day, when yer sees the moon turned inter Blood, you’ll be cryin’ hout for the mountings and the rocks to fall on yer and ’ide yer from the wrath of the Lamb!”
The others laughed derisively.
“I’m a Bush Baptist meself,” remarked the man on the upturned pail. This individual, Dick Wantley by name, was of what is usually termed a “rugged” cast of countenance. He reminded one strongly of an ancient gargoyle, or a dragon.
Most of the hands had by now lit their pipes, but there were a few who preferred chewing their tobacco. As they smoked or chewed they expectorated upon the floor or into the fire. Wantley was one of those who preferred chewing and he had been spitting upon the floor to such an extent that he was by this time partly surrounded by a kind of semicircular moat of dark brown spittle.
“I’m a Bush Baptist!” he shouted across the moat, “and you all knows wot that is.”