“Cæsar Cregeen, don't make a nose of wax of me,” bawled Tom, “and don't think because you're praiching a bit that religion is going to die with you. Your head's swelling tre-menjous, and-you won't be able to sleep soon without somebody to tickle your feet. You'll be forgiving sins next, and taking money for absolution, and these ones will be making a pope of you and paying you pence. Pope Cæsar, the publican, in his chapel hat and white choker! But that chiss is mine, and if there's law in the land I'll have it.”
With that Black Tom swept out of the house, and Cæsar wiped his eyes.
“No use smoothing a thistle, Mr. Cregeen,” said Jonaique soothingly.
“I've a conscience void of offence.” said Cæsar. “I can only follow the spirit's leading. But when Belial——”
He was interrupted by a most mournful cry of “Look here! Aw, look, then, look!”
Nancy was coming out of the back-kitchen with something between the tips of her fingers. It was a pair of old shoes, covered with dirt and cobwebs.
“These were his wearing boots,” she said, and she put them on the counter.
“Dear heart, yes, the very ones,” said Grannie. “Poor boy, they'd move a heart of stone to see them. Something to remember him by, anyway. Many a mile his feet walked in them; but they're resting now in Abraham's bosom.”
Then Cæsar's voice rose loud over the doleful tones around the counter. “'Vital Spark of Heavenly Flame'—raise it, Mr. Niplightly. Pity we haven't Peter and his fiddle here—he played with life.”
“I can'd sing to-day, having a cold, bud I'll whisle id,” said the Constable.