“Don’t see no use in it. All very well them lawyers”—a snap at Scotton—“come and argyfy—I hate argyfying, I do myself—never seed no good on it. Get rid of a man—I do. ‘Sickly sheep infects the flock and pisons all the rest.’” These last words formed part of a hymn of which Brother Bushel was fond.
“What do you say, Brother Wainwright?”
Brother Wainwright, although he could do nothing but agree with Brother Bushel, and never did anything but agree with him, preferred to make a show of reflection. He again looked in his hat, shut his mouth fast; again scratched his head; again shook it a little, and with another jerk, as if announcing a conclusion at which he had arrived with great certainty, but after a severe mental effort, he said:
“Oi go with Brother Bushel, Oi do.”
“Well,” said Scotton, extending his legs again and gazing at the ceiling, “I must nevertheless be permitted to adhere—”
“Adhere,” interrupted Bushel. “What’s the use of talking like that? You always adhere—what for, I should like to know?”
Scotton went on with dignity, not noticing the attack.
“Adhere, I was about to say, Mr. Broad, to my previously expressed opinion. I am not at all sure that the Allens have not a legal status, and that an action would not lie if we proceeded without due formalities. Tanner’s Lane, you must recollect, is in a peculiar position, and there is an endowment.”
Mr. Scotton had this advantage over Cowfold generally, that if he knew nothing about the law himself, excepting so far as bids at a sale were concerned, Cowfold knew less, and the mention of the endowment somewhat disturbed Mr. Broad’s mind.
“Brother Bushel is no doubt quite justified in his anxiety to avoid discussion, which will in all probability lead to no useful result; but, on the other hand, it will be as well, perhaps, to proceed with caution.”