ABOUT PASTOR AND MASTER
Unpleasant creatures are so plentiful in the world that they cannot be
overlooked. Were there only a few they might be ignored; but they
throng, they thrust themselves forward, they shout to attract attention,
they push the decent-looking out of the way. The ugliest women make the
most noise; the ugliest men shove to the front in a crowd; the ugliest
insects make their way into bed-chambers. Why Nature made so much
ugliness, side by side with so much that is beautiful, only Nature
knows. Some countries are made detestable to live in by the presence of
hideous creatures. There is the fire-ant of the Amazon valley, which
will put human beings to flight. There is the Mygale spider, covered
with poisonous red hair, its body the size of a duck's egg, the spread
of its legs covering eight inches, which scuttles into a room by
moonlight and casts a horrible shadow upon the bed. There is the
wolf-spider which, if a man passes near its lair, will leap out and
pursue him, and bite him if it can. There are so many of these repulsive
things that they cannot be disregarded. Some things can be kept out of
the way: abattoirs, operating-theatres, vivisection-hells. People ignore
and forget these, because they are not seen; but the man wolf-spider
cannot be forgotten, because he leaps out and pursues those that come
near his lurking-place.
Nothing in the entire system of creation can be more inexplicable than
the persistent cruelty of Nature. Death there must be, but Nature
resents a painless death. Animals not only kill but torture those which
are inferior to them. Mason-wasps deliberately vivisect spiders, which
are insects extremely tenacious of life. It is the same all the way
along the scale up to and including man. Nature does her work with
bloody hands; birth, life, death, become a miserable dabble of blood and
passion. Some people shut their eyes to it all; others cannot; others
add to it; churches with their tolling bells and black masses revel in
the mystic side of it.
There is not a person living who has not done an act of cruelty. It is
impossible to refrain from it. However kindly the soul may be Nature
will whisper bloody messages; and some day there is sure to be a
temporary breakdown. In a town the wretched business is not much seen.
It lurks in the dark corners, like the Mygale spider, and comes out
perhaps at moonlight to cast its shadow upon the bed. On the sparsely
inhabited moor it is visible, for it cannot hide away so easily, and it
tries less because it is fiercer. It is like the wolf-spider which
dashes out in a mad fury. Upon a wild upland passions are fiercer, just
as physical strength is greater. Everything seems to suggest the dark
end of the scale; the rain is more furious, the clouds are blacker, the
wind is mightier, the rivers are colder; Nature is at full strength. She
is wild and lawless, and men are often wild and lawless too. Tender
lilies would not live upon the moor, and it is no use looking for them.
They are down in the valleys. Upon the moor there is the granite, the
spiny gorse, the rugged heather. It is no use looking for the qualities
of the lily in those men who are made of the granite, and gorse, and
heather.
Pendoggat was the sort of man who might have melted into tears at
hearing a violin played, and then have kicked the performer down a wheal
if he asked for a copper. Nature turns out a lot of contradictory work
like that. She never troubles to fit the joints together. Had any one
told Pendoggat he was a cruel man, he would first of all have stunned
the speaker into silence, and then have wondered whatever the man had
been driving at. It is a peculiarity of cruelty that it does not
comprehend cruelty. No argument will persuade a rabbit-trapper that the
wretched animals suffer in the iron jaws of his traps. The man who skins
an eel alive, and curses it because it won't keep still, cannot be
brought to understand that he is doing anything inhuman. Perhaps he will
admit he had never given the subject a thought; more probably he will
regard the apostle of mercy as a madman. The only way to enlighten such
men is to skin them alive, or compel them to tear themselves to death in
an iron trap; and there are, unfortunately, laws to prevent that. The
only just law ever made was the _lex talionis_, and Nature recognises
that frequently. Pendoggat trapped rabbits in his fields, and if they
were not dead when he found them he left them as a rule. The traps were
supposed to kill them in time, and the longer they were in dying the
longer their flesh would keep. That was the way he looked at it. Quite a
practical way.
Very likely Pendoggat was of Spanish extraction in spite of his Cornish
name. The average Cornishman has a thoroughly good heart, and is, if he
be of the true stock, invariably fair. The Cornish man or maid who is
dark owes something to foreign blood. There are in Cornwall many men and
women so strikingly dark as to attract attention at once; and if their
ancestry could be traced back a couple of hundred years it might be
found that a Spanish name occurred. While the stout men of Devon were
chasing the Armada up channel and plucking the Admiral's feathers one by
one, and the patriotic Manacles were doing Cornwall's share by giving
the big galleons a hearty welcome, many a shipwrecked sailor found his
way into the cottages of fishermen and wreckers, and with the aid of a
pocketful of gold pieces made themselves at home. Some possibly were
able to return to Spain; others probably seduced their protectors' young
women; others were lawfully wedded; others settled down in their new
land and took a Cornish name. It is a difficult piece of history to
trace, and much must remain pure hypothesis; but it is fairly certain
that had there been no Spanish Armada to invade England, and to send
Queen Elizabeth to her writing-tablets to reel off a lot of badly-rhymed
doggerel in imitation of Master Spenser, there would also have been no
Farmer Pendoggat dwelling at Helmen Barton in the parish of Lydford and
sub-parish of St. Mary Tavy, as a commoner of Dartmoor and a tenant in
name of Elizabeth's descendant the Duke of Cornwall.
There was nothing of a sinister nature about the Barton. Even its name
meant simply in its original Celtic the place of the high stone; _hel_
being a corruption of _huhel_, and _men_ one of the various later forms
of _maen_; just as huhel twr, the high tor, has now become Hel Tor.
Wherever people have been given a chance of dragging in the devil and
his dwelling-place they have taken it; actuated, perhaps, by the same
motive which impelled the old dame to make a profound reverence whenever
the name of the ghostly enemy was mentioned, as she didn't know what
would be her fate in a future state, so thought it wise to try and
propitiate both sides. The Barton was a long low house of granite, damp
and ugly. No architect could make a house built of granite look
pleasant; no art could prevent the tough stone from sweating. It was
tiled, which made it look colder still. Creepers would not crawl up its
walls on account of the winds. One half of the Barton was crowded with
windows, the other half appeared to be a blank wall. A good many
farm-houses are built upon that plan, the stable and loft being a
continuation of the dwelling-house, and to all outward appearance a part
of it. There was not a tree near the place. The farm was in a fuzzy
hollow; above was a fuzzy down. It ought to have been called Furzeland,
a name which is borne by a tiny hamlet in mid-Devon, which nobody has
ever heard of, where the furze does not grow. The high stone which had
named the place--probably a menhir--had disappeared long ago. Some
former tenant would have broken it up and built it into a wall. The
commoners' creed is a simple one, and runs thus: "Sometimes I believe in
God who made Dartmoor. I cling to my privileges of mining, turbary, and
quarrying. I take whatever I can find on the moor, and give no man pay
or thanks. I reverence my landlord, and straighten his boundary walls
when he, isn't looking. The granite is mine, and the peat, and the
rivers, and the fish in them, and so are the cattle upon the hills, if
no other man can put forward a better claim. No foreign devil shall
share my privileges. If any man offers to scratch my back he must pay
vor't. Amen."
It was fitting that a man like Pendoggat should live among the furze,
farm in the furze, fight with the furze. He resembled it in its
fierceness, its spitefulness, its tenacity of life; but not in its
beauty and fragrance. He brought forth no golden blossoms. There was no
thorn-protected fragrance in him. He was always struggling with the
furze, without realising that it must defeat him in the end. He burnt
it, but up it came in the spring. He grubbed it up, but portions of the
root escaped and sent forth new growth. He would reclaim a patch, but
directly he turned his back upon it to attack a fresh piece the furze
returned. To eradicate furze upon a moor was not one of the labours
allotted to Hercules. He would have found it worse than cutting off the
heads of the water-snake. Pendoggat had fought for twenty years, and the
enemy was still undefeated; he would die, and the gorse would go on; for
he was only a hardy annual, and the gorse is a perennial, as eternal as
the rivers and the granite. It bristled upon every side of the Barton,
the greater gorse as well as the lesser, and it was in flower all the
year round, as though boasting of its indomitable strength and vitality.
On the west side, where the moorland dipped and made an opening for the
winds from Tavy Cleave, a long narrow brake remained untouched to make a
shelter for the house. The gorse there was high and thick, and its ropy
stems were as big round as a man's wrist. Pendoggat would have
grievously assaulted any man who dared to fire that brake.
People who talked scandal in the twin villages, namely, the entire
population, wondered whether Mrs. Pendoggat was really as respectable as
she looked. They decided against her, as they were not the sort of
people to give any one the benefit of a doubt. They were right, however,
for Annie Pendoggat had no claim to the latter part of her name. She was
really Annie Crocker, a degraded member of one of those three famous
families--Cruwys and Copplestone being the other two--who reached their
zenith before the Norman invasion. She had come to Pendoggat as
housekeeper, and could not get away from him; neither could he dismiss
her. She was a little woman, with a sharp face and a soft voice; much
too soft, people said. She could insult any one in a manner which
suggested that she loved them. She had been fond of her master in her
snake-like way. She still admired his brute strength, and what she
thought was his courage. He had never lifted up his hand against her;
and when he threatened to, she would remark in her soft way that the
long brake of gorse darkened the kitchen dreadfully, and she thought she
would go and set a match to it. That always brought Pendoggat to his
senses.
It was a quiet life at the Barton. Pendoggat had no society, except that
of some minister whom he might bring back to dinner on Sundays. On that
day he attended chapel twice. He also went on Wednesday, when he
sometimes preached. His sermons were about a cruel God ruling the world
by cruelty, and preparing a state of cruelty for every one who didn't
attend chapel twice on Sundays and once during the week. He believed in
what he said. He also believed he was himself secure from such a
punishment; just as certain ignorant Catholics sincerely rely on the
power of a priest to forgive their sins. Pendoggat thought that he was
free to act as he pleased, so long as he didn't miss his attendances at
chapel. If he cheated a man, and missed chapel, his soul would be in
danger; but if he attended chapel the sin was automatically forgiven. It
was a strange form of theology, but not an uncommon one. Many excellent
people tend towards it. Pious old ladies will do all they can to induce
young men to attend church. It does not appear to trouble them much if
the young men read comic papers, wink at the girls, or slumber audibly,
while they are there. The great point has been gained. The young men are
in church; therefore they are religious. The young man who goes for a
walk to the top of the highest tor to watch the sunset is a vile
creature who will be damned some day.
The Barton had its parlour, and Pendoggat practised the entire ritual
connected with that mysterious apartment. No Dartmoor farm-house would
have the slightest pretensions to be regarded as a civilised home
without the parlour. Its rites and ceremonies remain unwritten, and yet
every farmer knows them, and practises them with the precision of a
Catholic priest obeying his rubrics, or with the zeal of an Anglican
parson defying his. It must be the best room in the house, and it must
be kept locked and regarded as holy ground. The windows must not be
opened lest fresh air should enter, and equally dangerous sunlight must
be excluded by blinds and curtains and a high bank of moribund plants.
The furniture is permitted to vary, with the exception of a few
ornaments which must be found in every house as a mark of stability and
respectability. There must be a piano which cannot be used for purposes
of music, and a lamp which is not to be lighted. Whatever books the
house contains must be arranged in a manner pleasing to the householder,
and they must never be opened. There is a central table, and upon it
recline albums containing photographs of the family at different stages
of their careers, together with those of ancestors; and these
photographs have little value if they are not yellow and faded to denote
their antiquity. In the centre of the table must appear a strange
device; a stuffed bird in a glass case, a piece of coral on a mat, or
some recognised family heirloom. The pictures must be strongly coloured
and should have a religious accent. As Germany has achieved surprising
results in the matter of colour, the pictures are usually from that
fatherland. Ruined temples on the Nile are a favourite subject; only the
temples should resemble dilapidated barns, and the Nile bear a distinct
likeness to a duck pond. Upon the mantel must stand a clock which has
not gone within living memory, and some assorted crockery which if
viewed continuously in a strong light will bring on neuralgia. A copy of
a penny novelette, and a sheet of music-hall songs lying about, denote
literary and musical tastes; but these are unusual. There is generally a
family Bible, used to support a large shell, or a framed photograph of
the master in his prime of life; and this is opened from time to time to
record a birth, marriage, or death. The pattern of the wall-paper must
be decided and easily discernible; scarlet flowers on a yellow
background are always satisfactory.
The ceremony of entering the parlour takes place usually on Sunday.
There is a Greater Entry and a Lesser Entry. The lesser takes place
after tea. The master in his best clothes, his face and hands washed,
although that point is not always insisted upon, carefully shaven, or
with well-groomed beard, as the case may be, his boots removed after the
manner of a Mussulman, enters the holy place, sits stiffly upon a chair
without daring to lean back lest he should disturb the antimacassar,
lights his pipe, and revels in the odour of respectability. He does not
really enjoy himself, but after a time he grows more confident and
ventures to cross his legs. From time to time he rises, goes out, walks
along the passage, and spits out of the front door. The greater entry
takes place after chapel. The entire family assemble by the light of the
kitchen lamp and say wicked things about their neighbours. Sometimes
guests are introduced, and these display independence in various ways,
chiefly by leaning back in their chairs and shuffling their boots on the
carpet. The ceremonies come to a close at an early hour; the members of
the family file out; father, leaving last, locks the door. The parlour
is closed for another week.
Pendoggat's parlour was orthodox; only more cold and severe than most.
The wall-paper was stained with moisture, and the big open fire-place
always smoked. The master thought himself better than the neighbouring
commoners, and none of them were ever invited to enter his sanctuary. In
a way he was their superior. He could write a good hand, and read
anything, and he spoke better than his neighbours. It is curious that of
two commoners, educated and brought up in exactly the same way, one will
speak broad dialect and the other good English. There was naturally very
little society for Pendoggat. He lived in his own atmosphere as a
philosopher might have done. He encouraged his minister to visit him,
but he had a good reason for that. Weak-minded ministers are valuable
assets and good advertising agents; for, if their congregations do not
exactly trust them, they will at least follow them, which is more than
they will do for any one else.
The sanctity of the parlour may be violated on weekdays; either upon the
occasion of some chapel festival, or when a visitor of higher rank than
a farmer calls. When Pendoggat reached the Barton he knew at once that
the place was haunted by a visiting body, because the blinds were up.
Annie Crocker met him in the yard, which in local parlance was known as
the court, and said: "The Maggot's waiting for ye in the parlour. Been
there nigh upon an hour. He'm singing Lighten our Darkness by now, I
reckon, vor't be getting whist in there, and he'm alone where I set 'en,
and told 'en to bide till you come along."
"Given him no tea?" said Pendoggat, appearing to address the stones at
his feet rather than the woman. That was his usual way; nobody ever saw
Pendoggat's eyes. They saw only a black moustache, a scowl, and a moving
jaw.
"No, nothing," said Annie. "No meat for maggots here. Let 'en go and eat
dirt. Bad enough to have 'en in the house. He'm as slimy as a slug."
"Shut your noise, woman," said Pendoggat. "Take the horse in, and slip
his bridle off."
"Tak' 'en in yourself, man," she snapped, turning towards the house.
Pendoggat repeated his command in a gentler voice; and this time he was
obeyed. Annie led the horse away, and the master went in.
The Reverend Eli Pezzack was the Maggot, so called because of his
singularly unhealthy complexion. Dartmoor folk have rich red or brown
faces--the hard weather sees to that--but Eli was not a son of the moor.
It was believed that he had originated in London of West-country
parents. He had none of the moorman's native sharpness. He was a tall,
clammy individual, with flabby hands dun and cold like mid-Devon clay;
and he was so clumsy that if he had entered a room containing only a
single article of furniture he would have been certain to fall against
it. He was no humbug, and tried to practise what he taught. He was
lamentably ignorant, but didn't know it, and he never employed a word of
one syllable when he could find anything longer. He admired and
respected Pendoggat, making the common mistake with ignorant men of
believing physical strength to be the same thing as moral strength. He
agreed with those grammarians who have maintained that the eighth letter
of the alphabet is superfluous.
"Sorry to have kept ye sitting in the dark," said Pendoggat as he
entered the parlour.
"The darkness has not been superlative, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli, as he
stumbled over the best chair while trying to shake hands. "The lunar
radiance has trespassed pleasantly into the apartment and beguiled the
time of lingering with pleasant fancies." He had composed that sentence
during "the time of lingering," but knew he would not be able to
maintain that high standard when he was called on to speak extempore.
"'The darkness is no darkness at all, but the night is as clear as the
day,'" quoted Pendoggat with considerable fervour, as he drew aside the
curtains to admit more moonlight.
"True, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli. "We know who uttered that sublime
contemplation."
This was a rash statement, but was made with conviction, and accepted
apparently in the same spirit.
"You know why I asked you to come along here. I'm going to build up your
fortune and mine," said Pendoggat. "Let us seek a blessing."
Eli tumbled zealously over a leg of the table, gathered himself into a
kneeling posture, clasped his clay-like hands, and prayed aloud with
fervour and without aspirates for several minutes. When Pendoggat
considered that the blessing had been obtained he dammed up the flow of
words with a stertorous "Amen." Then they stood upon their feet and got
to business.
"Seems there's no oil in this lamp," said the master, referring not to
the pastor, but to the lamp of state which was never used.
"We do not require it, Mr. Pendoggat," came the answer. "We stand in
God's light, the moonlight. That is sufficient for two honest men to see
each other's faces by."
Pendoggat ought to have winced, but did not, merely because he had so
little knowledge of himself. He didn't know he was a brute, just as
Peter and Mary did not know they were savages. Grandfather the clock
knew nearly as much about his internal organism as they did about
theirs.
"I want money," said Pendoggat sharply. "The chapel wants money. You
want money. You're thinking of getting married?"
Eli replied that celibacy was not one of those virtues which he felt
called upon to practise; and admitted that he had discovered a young
woman who was prepared to blend her soul indissolubly with his. The
expression was his own. He did not mention what he imagined would be the
result of that mixture. "More maggots," Annie Crocker would have said.
Annie had been brought up in the atmosphere of the Church, and for that
reason hated all pastors and people known as chapel-volk. Pendoggat was
the one exception with her; but then he was not an ordinary being. He
was a piece of brute strength, to be regarded, not so much as a man, but
as part of the moor, beaten by wind, and producing nothing but gorse,
which could only be burnt and stamped down; and still would live and
rise again with all its former strength and fierceness. Pastor Eli
Pezzack was the poor weed which the gorse smothers out of being.
"Come outside," said Pendoggat.
Eli picked up his hat, stumbled, and wondered. He did not venture to
disobey the master, because weak-minded creatures must always dance to
the tune piped by the strong. Pendoggat was already outside, tramping
heavily in the cold hall. Unwillingly Eli left the parlour, with its
half-visible memorials, its photographs, worthless curios, hair-stuffed
furniture and glaring pictures; blundering like a bee against a window
he followed; he heard Pendoggat clearing his throat and coughing in the
court.
"Got a stick?" muttered the master. "Take this, then." He gave the
minister a long ash-pole. "We're going down Dartmoor. It's not far. Best
follow me, or you'll fall."
Eli knew he was certain to fall in any case, so he protested mildly. "It
is dangerous among the rocks, Mr. Pendoggat."
The other made no answer. He went into the stable, and came out with a
lantern, unlighted; then, with a curt "Come on," he began to skirt the
furze-brake, and Eli followed more like a patient sheep than a foolish
shepherd.
There is nothing more romantic than a wide undulating region of high
moorland lighted by a full moon and beaten by strong wind. The light is
enough to show the hills and rock-piles. The wind creates an atmosphere
of perfect solitude. The two men came out of the dip; and the scene
about them was the high moor covered with moonlight and swept by wind.
Pendoggat's face looked almost black, and that of the Maggot was whiter
than ever by contrast.
"Where are you taking me?" he asked gently. "Need we proceed at this
present 'igh velocity, Mr. Pendoggat? I am not used to it. I cannot be
certain of my equilibrium."
The other stopped. Eli was deep in heather, floundering like a man
learning to swim.
"You're an awkward walker, man. Lift your feet and plant 'em down firm.
You shuffle. Catch hold of my arm if you can't see. We're not going far.
Down the cleave--a matter of half-a-mile, but it's bad walking near the
river."
Eli did not take the master's arm. He was too nervous. He struggled on,
tumbling about like a drunken man; but Pendoggat was walking slowly now
that they were well away from the Barton.
"Sorry to bring you out so late," he said. "I meant to be home earlier,
and then we'd have got down the cleave by daylight."
"But what are we going to inspect?" cried Eli.
"Something that may make our fortunes. Something better than scratching
the back of the moor for a living. I'll make a big man of you, Pezzack,
if you do as I tell ye."
"You are a wonderful man, and a generous man, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli.
Then he plunged heavily into a gorse-bush.
Pendoggat dragged him out grimly, almost crying with pain, with a
hundred little white bristles in his face and hands. He mentioned this
fact with suitable lamentations.
"They'll work out. What's a few furze-prickles?" Pendoggat muttered.
"Get your hands hard, and you won't feel 'em. Mind, now! there's bog
here. Best keep close to me."
Eli obeyed, but for all that he managed to step into the bog, and made
the ends of his clerical trousers objectionable. They reached the edge
of the cleave, and stopped while Pendoggat lighted his lantern. They had
to make their way across a wilderness of clatters. The moonlight was
deceptive and crossed with black shadows. The wind seemed to make the
boulders quiver. Eli looked upon the wild scene, heard the rushing of
the river, saw the rugged range of tors, and felt excited. He too felt
himself an inheritor of the kingdom of Tavy and a son of Dartmoor. He
was going to be wealthy perhaps; marry and rebuild his chapel; do many
things for the glory of God. He was quite in earnest, though he was a
simple soul.
"I lift up mine eyes to the 'ills, Mr. Pendoggat," he said reverently.
"Best keep 'em on your feet. If you fall here you'll smash your head."
"When I contemplate this scene," went on Eli, with religious zeal
undiminished, "so full of wonder and mystery, Mr. Pendoggat, I repeat to
myself the inspired words of Scripture, 'Why 'op ye so, ye 'igh 'ills?'"
Pendoggat agreed gruffly that the quotation was full of mystery, and it
was not for them to inquire into its meaning.
Somehow they reached the bottom of the cleave, Eli shambling and sliding
down the rocks, tumbling continually. Pendoggat observed his inartistic
scramblings with as much amusement as he was capable of feeling,
muttering to himself, "He'd trip over a blade o' grass."
They came to an old wall overgrown with fern and brambles; just below it
was the mossy ruin of a cot, the fire-place still showing, the remains
of the wall a yard in width. They were among works concerning which
history is hazy. They were in a place where the old miners wrought the
tin, and among the ruins of their industry. Perhaps a rich mine was
there once. Possibly it was the secret of that place which was guarded
so well by the Carthaginian captain, who sacrificed his tin-laden galley
to avoid capture by Roman coastguards. The history of the search for
"white metal" upon Dartmoor has yet to be learnt. They went cautiously
round the ruin, and upon the other side Eli dived across the bleached
skeleton of a pony and became mixed up in dry bones.
A deep cleft appeared overhung with gorse and willows. Eli would have
dived again had not Pendoggat been holding him. They clambered across,
then made their way along a shelf of rock between the cliff and the
river. Beyond, Pendoggat parted the bushes, and directed the light of
his lantern towards what appeared to be a narrow gully, black and
unpleasant, and musical with dripping water.
"Go on," he said curtly.
The minister held back. He was not a brave man, and that black hole in
the side of the moor conjured up horrors.
"Take my hand, and let yourself down. There's water, but not more than a
foot," said Pendoggat.
He pushed Eli forward, then caught his collar, and lowered him like a
sack. The minister shuddered when he felt the icy water round his legs
and the clammy ferns closing about his head. Pendoggat followed. They
were in a narrow channel leading towards a low cave. Frogs splashed in
front of them. Small streams trickled down a hundred tiny clefts.
"This is a very disagreeable situation, Mr. Pendoggat," said Eli meekly.
"Come on," said the other gruffly. "I'll show you something to open your
eyes. Step low."
They splashed on, bent under the arch of the cave, and entered the womb
of the moor. Hundreds of feet of solid granite roofed them in. They were
out of the wind and moonlight. Pendoggat guided the minister in front of
him, keeping him close to the wall of rock to avoid the deep water in
the centre. About twenty paces from the entry was a shaft cut at right
angles. They went along it until they had to stoop again.
"Be'old, Mr. Pendoggat!" cried Eli, with amazed admiration. "Be'old the
colours! I have never seen anything so beautiful in my life. What is it?
Jewels, Mr. Pendoggat? You don't say they are jewels?"
"Pretty, ain't they? More than pretty too. Now you know what I've
brought you for," said Pendoggat, as he turned up the light to increase
the splendour of the wall.
It was a pretty sight for a child, or any other simple creature. The
side wall at the end of the shaft was streaked and veined with a
brilliant purple and green pattern. These colours were caused by the
iron in the rocks acting upon the slate, which was there abundant.
Pendoggat knew that well enough. He knew also that the sight would
impress the minister. He lifted the lantern, pointed to a streak of pale
blue which ran down the rock from the roof to the water, and said
gruffly: "You can see for yourself. That's the stuff."
"What is it?" whispered the excited pastor.
"Nickel. The rock's full of it."
"But don't they know? Does anybody know of it?"
"Only you and me," said Pendoggat.
"Why have you told me? You are a very generous man, but why do you let
me into the secret?"
"Come outside," said Pendoggat.
They went out. Not a word was spoken until they reached the side of the
cleave. Then Pendoggat turned upon the minister, holding his arm and
shaking it violently as he said: "I've chosen you as my partner. I can
trust you. Will you stand in with me, share the risks, and share the
profits? Answer now, and let's have done with it."
"I must go home and pray over it, Mr. Pendoggat," cried the excited and
shivering Eli. "I must seek for guidance. I do not know if it is right
for me to seek after wealth. But for the chapel's sake, for my future
wife's sake, for the sake of my unborn infants--"
"Yes or no," broke in Pendoggat. "We'll finish it before we move."
"What can I do?" said Eli, clasping his clay-like hands. "I know nothing
of these things. I don't know anything about nickel, except that I have
some spoons and forks--"
"Don't you see we must get money to work it? You can manage that. You
have several congregations. You can persuade them to invest. My name
must be kept out of it. The commoners don't like me. I'll do everything
else. You can leave the business in my hands. Your part will be to get
the money--and you take half profits."
"I will think over it, Mr. Pendoggat. I will think and pray."
"Make up your mind now, or I get another partner."
Pendoggat lifted the glass of the lantern and blew out the light.
"Have we the right to work a mine upon the moor?"
"Leave all that to me. You get the money. Tell 'em we will guarantee ten
per cent. Likely it will be more. It's as safe a thing as was ever
known, and it is the chance of your lifetime. Here's my hand."
Eli took the hand, and had the gorse-prickles forced well into his.
"I'll do my best, Mr. Pendoggat. I know you are an honest and a generous
man," he said.