That was how Mr. Caldicott, the clergyman of the Brightlingside Congregational Church, pushing damply at the mower which jibbed at the tough grass of his front lawn and finding the March sun too prodigal of its blessing, became aware that his labours were being viewed by a stranger with a queer mixture of sympathy and envy. Seeing that he had been discovered, the stranger made a sketchy motion towards his cap, in deference evidently to the cloth, and said, "That's hot work on a day like this, sir. Will you let me take a hand?"
Now the clergyman was young and very fond of showing that he was not above a good day's work. "Do you think I'm not able to do a job like that myself?" he asked, with a strong, brotherly smile.
"Oh, no, sir. It isn't that at all. It's only that I'd be very glad to earn a copper or two for doing it for you."
"Oh?" said Mr. Caldicott, his professional instincts aroused. "Are you looking for work?"
"That's about it," said the man. "Married?"
"No, sir." Simpson was about to add a pious thanksgiving, but stopped himself in time.
"What kind of work are you looking for?"
"Anything.
"Yes, but have you a trade?"
"I can make shoes, sir," said Simpson, thinking he might as well stick to the truth as far as it served him.