"For the love o' God, sir, help a poor fellow that's dyin' o' hunger. I've walked fifty miles without a bite—hope to die if I haven't, sir. I wouldn't tell you a lie, sir."
The stalwart young minister smiled, and gave his stick another swing before he spoke.
"You have not walked five miles without drinking, anyway, as my nose very plainly tells me. And your pipe is setting your coat on fire at this very moment!"
The hobbledehoy plucked his lighted pipe out of his pocket and set his thumb in the bowl.
"You are one of the good kind," he persisted; "you are not the sort that would deny a poor chap a sixpence because he takes a draw of tobacco when he can get it?"
"Not a bit," said the minister, good-humouredly; "I can take a whiff myself. But I don't ask anybody else to pay for it. It's a fine business, yours, my lad. But I'm not keeping a free rum and tobacco shop. So you had best tramp, my man."
At this the tramp began to pour forth a volley of the most foul-mouthed abuse, cursing all parsons for rogues, liars, and various other things. The minister listened patiently for some time.
"Now," he said, when at last there came a pause, "I have given you your say—away with you! And if I hear another foul word out of your mouth, I will draw my stick soundly across your back."
"Oh!" said the other impudently, "I thought you were one of the softish kind—the sort that when you smote them on the one cheek, turned the other also."
The young man in the round hat squared his shoulders.