"No," said Chowne, "I'll stand here till it boils. Shove in some browse" (light firewood).
Reluctantly the browse was put in under the cauldron, and was lighted. It flared up.
"Now some hard wood, Sally," said the parson.
Still more reluctantly were sawn logs inserted. A moment after up went the copper lid, and out scrambled Joe, hot and dripping.
"Ah! I reckoned you was there," shouted Chowne, and went at him with his horse-whip, and lashed the fellow about the kitchen, down the passage, into the hall, and out at the front door, where he dismissed him with a kick.
I tell the tale as it was told to me, but I suspect the conclusion of this story. It reminds me of a familiar folk-tale. But then—is it not the prerogative of such tales to attach themselves to the last human notoriety?
Parson Chowne and Sally's young Man.
That this same crop, or hunting-whip, was applied to Mrs. Chowne's shoulders and back was commonly reported in Blackamoor, and indeed is so reported even unto this day.