ABOUT THE GOOD RIGHT HAND OF FELLOWSHIP
One of the creeping-things to be crushed at the forthcoming Assizes was
Brightly. Ju had been already stamped out of existence, and it was meet
and right that the little man should follow her example, and be placed
behind some stone walls where it would be impossible for him to drag
lusty farmers from their horses and half-murder them for the sake of
their clothes. Brightly had not long to wait in prison. Exeter put on
the full panoply of the law during the first week of November; scarlet
and gold were flourished; trumpeters and a special preacher brayed;
bells clanged, the small grocer and the candle-maker were summoned to
serve on the jury, to fail not at their peril, lawyers buzzed
everywhere, and a lot of money was spent just because Brightly and a few
poor yokels had misconducted themselves. It was a curious sort of net,
this Assize net; it was constructed and cast in such a manner that it
permitted a lot of coarse fish and golden carp to escape through its
meshes, while all the little tadpoles and mud-grubbers were caught and
held.
One of the coarse fish to swim into the judicial circuit was Pendoggat.
He came to Exeter, partly that he might spend a portion of the capital
of the Nickel Mining Company, and partly that he might visit the
Guildhall to see sinners punished. Pendoggat had a keen sense of justice
and a certain amount of dull humour. The Assizes represented to him a
foreshadowing of the fiery pleasures of Hell--they were a pleasure to
his mind because he was secure from them--and it amused him to think
that another man was going to suffer for his wrongdoing. The idea that
he was a sinner had never occurred to him. He had stripped Chegwidden,
and flung him into the furze, because the wind had swept upon him,
urging him to persecute the unconscious man, and he had obeyed. He had
not robbed Chegwidden, nor had he stolen his clothes; and that was the
principal charge against Brightly. If he had stood up in court, and
confessed that he had dragged the farmer from his horse and stolen his
clothes, he would have been telling a lie, which would have been painful
to him. Brightly was not charged with finding Chegwidden unconscious,
stripping the clothes from him, and throwing them down a wheal. Had that
been the charge against him Pendoggat would probably have recognised
that the purveyor of rabbit-skins was a good Christian, who had learnt
the great principles of the gospel, and was willing to sacrifice himself
for another. The mind of Pendoggat when it turned towards theology
became incomprehensible.
The weather was changing into winter and there was a smell of snow upon
the moor. Pendoggat had played his game, and so far as he could see had
won it. The success was not brilliant, because the people of Bromley had
proved to be a stingy set, and the amount of money subscribed for the
mining venture did not reach three hundred pounds. The chairman of the
company, Pezzack's retired grocer-uncle, who had after repeated failures
at last discovered how to spell the word committee, was continually
writing to know when the first consignment of ore was to be placed on
the market, and, what was of far greater importance, when the first
dividend might be expected. Pendoggat as frequently replied, through the
agency of Pezzack, that operations could not be commenced until spring,
as the climate of Dartmoor was not the same as that of Bromley; but the
grocer could not understand, and went on writing. He appeared to think
that nickel was like the inferior American and disreputable
margarine--which in his business had been labelled respectively prime
Cheddar and best butter--and would not keep. The little grocer deserved
to lose his money, though he was eminently respectable. His position
proved it, as only men of assured respectability can make enough money
to retire and purchase a little suburban villa, with such modern
improvements as walls one brick thick, roofs of thin plaster, and
defective drainage. His front doorstep was whitened daily. His parlour
window was heavily curtained, and in it were geraniums and ferns further
to attest respectability; and behind the curtains and floral display was
a chamber crowded with stately furniture. All was very beautiful in
front, and very dirty behind. The display in front was for the benefit
of the road. The negligence and dirt behind were only visible from the
railway. It was best butter according to the parlour window, and
disreputable margarine judging by the testimony of the back-yard.
Queer objects of the country had come from all parts of Devon to assert
their intelligence as witnesses in the various trials. Peter was a
witness in the Brightly case, Peter who had comforted his system with
many a pint of beer, paid for with Chegwidden's money, and was then
enjoying himself at the expense of the country, although he had taken
the opportunity to get his railway fare from Mary. Peter was not only
travelling again, but he was principal witness, as he had discovered
Chegwidden lying unconscious and fully dressed upon the road; and Peter
did not underestimate his importance.
Brightly had not been fortunate of late, but luck was to turn his way a
little at the trial. No doubt sentences upon small prisoners depend very
much upon the state of his lordship's liver. A bottle of corked wine, or
a burnt soup, may quite possibly mean another couple of months to the
man in the dock. Mercy is supposed to have its lodging somewhere in the
bowels, and if they are out of order, or offended by inferior cookery,
mercy may conceivably be out of order too. The judge upon this occasion
was in a robust state of health. His wine had not been corked, nor had
his soup been burnt, and he was quite in the mood to temper the panoply
of the law with a playful kind of mercy which presented counsel with
several somewhat obsolete jokes and one new pun. When Brightly appeared
another pun was instantly forthcoming upon his name. His lordship had at
once a kindly feeling for the prisoner who had contributed towards the
maintenance of his own reputation as a humorist; and he was soon saying
that it was absurd to suppose that such a poor creature could be guilty
of robbery with violence against the person of a strong man like Farmer
Chegwidden.
A very able young barrister defended Brightly at the request of the
judge, a youngster recently called, who had every inducement to do his
best. That was Brightly's second bit of luck. The health of the judge
was perfect, and he had been allotted a strong advocate, although he
could not understand why the gentleman took such an interest in him and
tried so hard to get him off. The fat constable and the other witnesses
were given a melancholy time by the young barrister, who treated them
all very much as Pendoggat had treated Chegwidden. He stripped the lies
off them and left them shivering in the strangeness of the truth. Peter
was a difficult witness at first, but after a few minutes counsel could
probably have made him swear that when he had discovered Chegwidden the
farmer was undressing himself with a view to taking a bath.
"In what condition was he when you found him lying upon the road?" asked
counsel.
"Mazed," replied Peter. "Same as I be," he muttered.
"Was he drunk?"
"No," said Peter stoutly.
"Do you know a drunken man when you see one?"
Peter thought he did, but was not certain. They were common objects, and
as long as a man could proceed from one place to another, and shout
occasionally, he was, according to Peter, a fairly sober person.
"Do you suppose he had fallen from his horse and stunned himself?"
"Likely," said Peter. "He'm a cruel hard rider."
"You have often seen him galloping over the moor, in what some people
might call a reckless way?"
"Seen 'en often," said Peter.
"Thursday evenings usually?" went on counsel, in a pleasant
conversational manner.
Peter agreed that it was so.
"You know, of course, that it is the farmer's habit on these evenings to
frequent some public-house; one night at Lydford, another at Brentor,
and so on? There's nothing remarkable about that, but still you are well
aware of it?"
Peter was.
"And you know what he goes there for? Everybody knows that. You know why
you go to a public-house. You go to get beer, don't you?"
"I du," said Peter with some enthusiasm.
"Sometimes there is a glass too much, and you are not quite sure of the
way home. That's only human nature. We all have our little failings.
When you have that glass too much you might ride 'cruel hard,' as you
express it, over the moor, without caring whether you had a spill or
not. Probably you would have a tumble. Chegwidden comes off pretty
often, I believe?"
"More often that he used to du," mumbled Peter, not in the least knowing
where he was being led.
"Well, that's natural enough. He's getting older and less confident.
Perhaps he drinks a bit harder too. A man can hardly find it easy to
gallop over the rough moor when he is very drunk. Don't you feel
surprised that Chegwidden has never hurt himself badly?"
Peter was not flustered then. Counsel was half-sitting on the edge of
the table, talking so nicely that Peter began to regard him as an old
friend, and thought he would like to drink a few glasses with this
pleasant gentleman who, he fancied, had a distinctly convivial eye.
"'Tis just witchery," he said in a confidential manner, feeling he was
in some bar-room, and the judge might be the landlord about to draw the
beer. "He'm got a little charm to his watch-chain, and that makes 'en
fall easy like."
"I suppose he hadn't got it on that night?"
"Forgot 'en, likely," said Peter with some regret, knowing that had
Chegwidden been wearing the charm and chain he would have gained
possession of them.
Counsel smiled at Peter, and the witness grinned back, with a feeling
that he was adding to his acquaintances. The next question followed
quite naturally--
"I suppose Chegwidden was pretty far gone that night. Now I want you to
use your memory, and tell me if you have ever seen him more drunk than
he was that night?"
"When us gets drunk us comes to a stop like," said Peter thoughtfully.
"Us gets no drunker," he explained to his new friend.
"You think Farmer Chegwidden had reached that stage? He could hardly
have been more intoxicated than he was when you found him?"
Peter admitted that the farmer's condition was unquestionably as his
friend had stated.
"He was dead drunk?"
"Mucky drunk," said Peter with a burst of confidence.
"You were not astonished, as you know he is an habitual drunkard?"
Peter was just going to agree, when he remembered he didn't know the
meaning of the word habitual.
"He gets drunk frequently. Makes a habit of it," explained counsel.
"He du," said Peter, in the emphatic manner which makes for good
evidence.
"Why did you say just now he was not drunk when you found him?" asked
counsel smoothly.
Peter's eyes were opened, and he discovered he was not in a bar-room,
but in the Guildhall between rows of unsympathetic faces, and his nice
young companion was not a friend at all; and he knew also he had been
giving evidence against a parishioner. It was useless after that to
proceed with the charge against Brightly in its original form; and his
advocate then attempted to show that he was equally innocent of theft.
Here, however, he failed, and his lordship himself, who felt in the mood
to be merciful, could only point out that circumstantial evidence went
entirely against the prisoner. He didn't believe that Brightly, was a
bad character. A long experience upon the Bench had enabled him to
determine fairly accurately between the hardened criminal and the poor
man who succumbed to sudden temptation. It was a wild cold night, and
the prisoner in his wretched clothes had happened to pass that way, and
when he found the drunken and stunned farmer lying upon the road the
temptation to strip him of his clothing had been too strong. The
subsequent ill-treatment of the senseless man, no doubt to gratify some
old grudge, was the unpleasant feature of the case. It was not
altogether easy for him to believe that Brightly had worked
single-handed. He left the case to the small grocer and the candle-maker
with every confidence that they would bring in a verdict in accordance
with the evidence, and he hoped that their consciences would direct them
aright. The consciences did their work rapidly, Brightly was declared
guilty, and the learned judge found that he would not be doing his duty
to the country if he sentenced him to less than three months'
imprisonment with hard labour. The next case was called, and the police
began as usual to complain about the sentence, and to declare that it
was no use doing their duty when judges wouldn't do theirs. The prisoner
was removed weeping, asking the gentlemen if they wouldn't let him have
his little dog, and begging the warder to take his "duppence" and go out
to buy him some rat-poison.
Brightly had indulged in several fits of play-acting since his
committal. He was a dull-witted man, and they could not make him
comprehend that he was a criminal of a particularly dangerous type, and
his little Ju a furious beast which it had been found necessary to
destroy. He was, indeed, so foolish that he failed to grasp the fact
that Ju was dead. He was always asking if he mightn't have her to talk
to. When they brought him food he would set a portion aside for Ju, and
beg the warder to see that she got it. When he sang his hymns he put out
his hand and patted the floor, thinking it was Ju. He did not want to go
to the wonderful dairy without his little dog. She would like the milk
and honey too. He would never have the heart to drive about in the
pony-cart, which was sure to come some day if he only waited long
enough, unless Ju was squatting upon the fern at the bottom or on the
seat beside him. It would be dreary Dartmoor indeed without tail-wagging
starving Ju. They could not make him understand that Ju was starving no
longer. Since his committal Brightly had failed to benefit from the
food, which was the best he had ever eaten in his life, though it was
prison fare. He was thinner because he could not feed upon the air and
the solitude, or smell the moor, and he was more blind because the
healing touch of the sun was off his eyes. He often thought of an
evening how beautifully the sun would be shining across Sourton Down,
and he wondered if the gentlemen would let him go, just to get a feel of
it for a few minutes. Sometimes he thought he could hear the Tavy
roaring, but it was nothing but the prison van rumbling in.
After sentence Brightly became more foolish, and rambled about his
little dog worse than ever. The doctor certified he was totally
incapable of undergoing hard labour, and he was removed to the
infirmary, where kind people visited him and gave him tracts and hoped
he would see the wickedness of his ways before it was too late. At last
Brightly began to comprehend that he was a vagabond of the baser sort.
All the gentlemen had said so, and they would not have impressed it upon
him so frequently if it was untrue. It appeared that he had led a life
of vice from his earliest years. It had been wicked to walk about the
moor trading in rabbit-skins, and vile to live in a cave upon Belstone
Cleave; and he had never known it until then. There was so much that he
didn't know. He learnt a lot about literature in his confinement. A lady
read portions of the Bible to him, and Brightly found some of it
interesting, although he could not understand why the Hebrew gentlemen
were always fighting, and his teacher didn't seem able to explain it.
Another lady tried to teach him "Jerusalem the Golden," and he responded
as well as he could, but the words would not remain in his poor memory,
and he always gave a quaint rendering of his own when he tried to repeat
the lines. He had the same question for every one: might he have his
little dog and talk to her for a bit? At last the doctor made him
understand that Ju was dead, and after that Brightly changed. His soul
became rusty, as it were, and he did not respond to his teachers. He
accepted everything with the same patient spirit, but he showed
indifference. He became like a tortoise, and when people stroked his
shell he refused to put his head out. It was all owing to the same old
fault--he could not understand things. He comprehended that he was a
criminal, and it had been fully explained to him that criminals must be
kept in confinement because they constitute a danger to other people.
But he could not understand what Ju had done that she should be taken
away from him and killed. Apparently she too had been a criminal, and
much worse than himself; for he had only been sent to prison, while she
had been executed. That was what Brightly couldn't understand; but then
he was only a fool.
Pendoggat left the court after sentence upon Brightly had been
pronounced, and began his homeward journey. The trial had pleased him,
and satisfied his sense of justice. He was hurrying back because there
was a service that evening and he was going to preach. Brightly would
make a good subject for his sermon, the man who was alone because he was
not fit to dwell with his kind, the man who had been caught in his sins
and punished for them. He had always tried to impress his listeners with
the fact that every man is sure to suffer for his sins some day; and he
believed what he said, and could not understand why people were so dull
as to think they would escape. Pendoggat had discovered long ago that
every man regards his neighbours as sinners and himself as a saint. He
behaved in exactly the same way himself. He would not be punished,
because he always made a point of repenting of his sins. He saved
himself by prayer and chapel attendances, and every day would insure his
soul against fire by reading the Bible. And yet he thought himself
different from other people, and was amazed when they had the effrontery
to declare that they too were saved, although neighbour This and
neighbour That ought to have known they were most assuredly and
everlastingly damned.
The region of the Tavy was cold and clear; a great change from the
low-lying city on the Exe and Greedy where there had been mist and
drizzle. As Pendoggat rode up from Lydford he noticed white pools and
splashes upon the dark tower and roof of St. Michael's church upon its
mount, and his heart warmed at the cold sight. It was to him what the
note of the cuckoo is to many, a promise, not of spring, but of the wild
days when solitude increases and the bogs become blue glaciers. Winter
had come and there would soon be the usual November fall of snow.
Pendoggat prepared his discourse as he rode up. The night was coming
when no man could work, miners least of all. His was not a cold theology
by any means. It contained, indeed, little that was not red-hot. The
old-fashioned lake of fire, surrounded by attendants in a uniform of
tails and hoofs, armed with pitchforks to keep sinners sizzling and turn
them occasionally, was good enough for him. Every one would have to be
burnt some time, like the gorse in swaling-time, except himself.
Ebenezer was crowded that evening. The week-day services were popular,
especially in winter, when the evenings were long, and there was no
money for the inn. Chapel upon the moor occupies much the same place in
the affections of the parishioners as the music-hall has obtained over
the minds of dwellers in big towns; and for much the same reason,
everybody likes to be entertained, and praying and hymn-singing are
essentially dramatic performances. A warm church or chapel is an
attractive place on a winter's evening, when it is dull at home, and
there is nothing doing outside. Middle-aged men will always speak
lovingly of their village church and its pleasant evening services. They
do not remember much about the prayers and hymns; but they have a very
clear and tender recollection of the golden-haired girl who used to sit
in the next pew but one.
Pezzack did not come in until Pendoggat had finished his discourse. He
was a sort of missionary, carrying the gospel over many villages, and
his unfortunate habit of tumbling from his bicycle kept many a
congregation waiting. He entered at last, with a bruised nose and tender
ear, and took possession of the reading-desk which his friend and
partner had been keeping warm for him; and then in his usual ridiculous
fashion he undid Pendoggat's good work by preaching of a pleasant land
on the other side of this world of woe. Eli had always been an optimist,
and now that he was happily married his lack of a proper religious
pessimism became more strongly marked than ever. He would never make a
really popular minister while he insisted upon looking at the bright
side of things. Many of his listeners thought him frivolous when he
spoke of happiness after death. They couldn't think wherever he got his
strange ideas from. It seemed as if Pezzack wanted to deprive them of
that glowing hell which they had learnt to love at their mother's knee.
The congregation melted away quickly to the echo of Eli's blessing, and
the friends found themselves alone, to put out the lamps, lock the
chapel, and leave everything in order. The minister was elated; they had
enjoyed a "blessed hour;" the world was going very well just then; and
he longed to clasp Pendoggat by the hand and tell him what a good and
generous man he was. He stood near the door, and with the enthusiasm of
a minor prophet exclaimed: "'Ow beautiful is this place, Mr. Pendoggat!"
A more hideous interior could hardly have been conceived, only the
minister was fortunate enough to know nothing about art. Temples of
Nonconformity on Dartmoor, as elsewhere, do not conform to any
recognised style of architecture, unless it be that of the wooden
made-in-Germany Noah's Ark; but Pezzack was able to regard the wet walls
and dreary benches through rose-tinted spectacles; or perhaps his
bruised eye lent a kind of glamour to the scene. It was certain,
however, that Pezzack had never yet seen men or things accurately. He
regarded Pendoggat as a saint, and the chapel as a place of beauty. His
eyes were apparently of as little use to him as his judgment. A blind
man might have discovered more with his finger-tips.
"You'll never make a preacher, man," said Pendoggat, as the last light
went out. "I'd got them worked up, and then you come and let them down
again. Your preaching don't bring them to the sinner's bench. It makes
them sit tight and think they are saved."
"I can't talk about 'ell. It don't come to me natural," said Eli in his
simple fashion.
"Sinners ain't saved by kindness. We've got to scare them. If you don't
flog a biting horse he'll bite again. You're too soft with them. You
want to get manly."
"I endeavour to do my duty," said Eli fervently. "But I can't talk to
them rough when I feel so 'appy."
"Happy, are ye?" muttered Pendoggat, his eyes upon the ground.
"My 'appiness is beyond words. I get up 'appy, and I go to bed 'appy,
and I eat 'appy. It's 'eaven on earth, Mr. Pendoggat, and when a man's
so 'appy he can't talk about 'ell. I owe it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat."
"The happiness or hell?" said Pendoggat, with a flash of grim humour.
"The wonderful and beautiful 'appiness. My wife and I pray for you
every night and morning. We are very comfortable in our little cottage,
and when, Mr. Pendoggat," he went on with enthusiasm, "when God sends
our first little olive-branch we shall 'ave all that our 'earts can
desire. Ah, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what a blessed thing it is to
be a father."
"You don't either," said the other sharply.
"I feel it coming upon me. I feel the pride and the glory and the honour
of it swelling up in my 'eart and making me 'appy with the world and all
that therein is. Amen. I can see myself walking about with it, saying:
'Open your eyes, my dear, and look at the proud and 'appy father of your
being.' 'Ow beautiful it all is, Mr. Pendoggat!"
Pezzack spoke like a fool. Why such men should swell with pride when
they become putative or actual parents is one of the wonders of the
universe. Gratification is permissible enough, but not a sense of pride,
which implies they have done something marvellous. Pezzack was like a
hen cackling because she has laid an egg, and supposing she has
accomplished something which entitles her to a chief place among hens,
when she has only performed an ordinary function of Nature which she
could not possibly have prevented.
"You're too soft," muttered Pendoggat, as they turned away from the
gloomy box-shaped chapel and began to ascend the silent road. It was a
clear night, the stars were large, and the wind was cold enough to
convey the idea of heat. There was enough light for them to see the
white track crossed ahead by another narrow road cut out of the black
moor. By morning there would be a greyness upon everything, and the
heather would be covered with frosted gossamers.
Pezzack was blowing on his big red hands, and stumbling about as if he
had been Farmer Chegwidden. He had never learnt how to walk, and it was
getting late to learn. Pendoggat was carrying a huge black Bible, which
was almost as cumbersome as Mary's umbrella. He always took it to chapel
with him, because it was useful to shake at the doubters and weaker
vessels. Big books in sombre bindings generally terrify the young or
illiterate, whatever their contents; and a big Bible brandished at a
reading-desk suggests a sort of court of appeal to which the preacher is
ready to carry his hearers' difficulties.
"I think we are going to get some snow," said Eli, falling back
naturally upon the state of the weather.
"There is a bit on Brentor," said Pendoggat.
"Then there will be some on Ger Tor. I must take my wife out to-morrow
to look at it. She does not know Dartmoor. It will be a little pleasure
for her."
The Pezzacks were easily amused. The first sprinkle of snow on Ger Tor
was worth going out to see, and could be discussed during the long
evening.
"It will mean the closing of the mine. There must be a lot of water in
it," suggested Eli in a nervous manner, although he was anticipating
things rather, seeing that the precious mine had never been opened.
"Afraid you won't get your fifteen shillings a week, are ye?" said
Pendoggat, in what was for him a pleasant voice.
"I don't think of that," lied Eli, stumbling along, with his hands
flapping like a pair of small wings. "I am in your 'ands, Mr. Pendoggat,
so I am safe. But my uncle writes every week and sends me a
mining-paper, and wants to know why we don't throw ourselves about a
bit. I think he means by that we ought to be at work. My uncle talks
slang, Mr. Pendoggat."
"Tell him he's a fool," said Pendoggat curtly.
"I 'ave," said Eli meekly. "At least I suggested it, but I think he
misunderstood me. He says that if we don't make a start he will come
down and make things 'um a bit. I am sorry my uncle uses such
expressions. They use funny phrases in Bromley, Mr. Pendoggat."
"He can come down if he likes, and you can give him a pick and tell him
to mine for himself until the commoners catch him," said Pendoggat
pleasantly. "We've done with your uncle. He won't subscribe any more
money, and I reckon his friends won't either. We've done our part. We've
got the money, nothing like so much as we wanted, but still a good bit,
and they can have the nickel, or what they think is nickel, and they can
come here and work it till the Duchy asks them what they're after, or
till the commoners fling them into the Tavy. Write that to your uncle,"
said Pendoggat, poking his victim in the ribs with his big Bible.
The minister stopped, but his companion went on, so he had to follow,
stumbling after him very much as Brightly had followed upon that same
road begging for his "duppence."
"What do you mean, Mr. Pendoggat? What do you mean?" he kept on saying.
"You're a happy man," muttered Pendoggat like a mocking bird. "Got a
wife, hoping for a child, manager of a mining company, with a rich fool
of an uncle. You're a lucky man, Pezzack."
"I'm a 'appy and fortunate man," gasped Eli.
"Every one respects you. They think you're a poor preacher, but they
know you're honest. It's a fine thing to be honest. You'll be called to
a town some day, and have a big congregation to sit under you if you
keep honest."
"I 'ope so. You're walking so fast I don't seem able to keep up with
you."
"It's a cold night. Come on, and get warm. How would you feel if people
found out you weren't honest? I saw a man sentenced to-day--hard labour,
for robbery. How would you feel if you were sentenced for robbery? Gives
you a cold feeling, I reckon. Not much chance of a pulpit when you came
out. Prison makes a man stink for the rest of his life."
"I can't keep up with you, Mr. Pendoggat, unless I run. I haven't enough
breath," panted Eli.
Pendoggat put the Bible under his arm, turned, caught Eli by the wrist
and strode on, dragging the clumsy minister after him.
"Mr. Pendoggat, I seem to think some'ow you don't 'ardly know what you
are a-doing of." Pezzack was confused and becoming uncertain of grammar.
"You'd stand and freeze. Breathe this wind into you and walk like a man.
What would you think, I'm asking ye, if you were found guilty of robbery
and sent to prison? Tell me that."
"I can't think no'ow," sobbed Eli, trying to believe that his dear
friend and brother had not gone mad.
"Can't think," growled Pendoggat. "See down under! That's where the mine
is, your mine, Pezzack, your nickel mine."
"You are 'urting my arm, Mr. Pendoggat, my rheumatic arm. Don't go on so
fast if you kindly please, for I don't seem able to do it. Yonder ain't
my mine, Mr. Pendoggat. It's yours, but I called it mine because you
told me to."
"Your uncle thinks it's yours. So do his friends. All the business has
gone through you. What do they think of me? Who do they think I am?"
"Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, I told them you are the manager."
"Your man. Your paid servant. Does it pinch here, Pezzack? 'Tis a bit up
here, and the moor's rough."
"Your 'and pinches, the good right 'and of fellowship," panted Eli.
"Don't the words pinch? Suppose the mine fails, where are you? Your
uncle will be down on you, and he'll cast you over. You won't see any of
his savings, and there's a wife to keep, and children coming, but you're
a happy man. We're all happy on a frosty night like this. Come on!"
"What are you a-saying? I don't seem to get hold of it. Let me stop, Mr.
Pendoggat. I want to wipe the sweat off my face."
"Let it bide there. My name don't appear in the mining business. The
thing is yours from start to finish, and I'm your man. There will be
none more against you if the mine fails, and I'm thrown out of a job.
I've got the cash, Pezzack, every penny of it down to the Barton in
notes. When are we going to start on the new chapel, minister? We're
going to build a new chapel, the finest on the moor. We can't start till
the spring. You told your uncle that? The snow's coming. It's in the air
now, and I reckon 'tis falling thick on the high tors. We can't build
the chapel and get out the nickel while the snow lasts."
Pendoggat was walking at a furious pace, devouring the keen wind, his
head bent forward, chin upon his chest, lurching from side to side,
dragging the minister like a parent hauling a refractory child.
"He 'ave lost his senses. He don't know what he's doing with me," Eli
panted, becoming for the first time indirect.
"We're getting near the top. There will be a fine wind. Do you good,
Pezzack. Make a man of you. What do you think of the nickel down under?
Pretty good stuff, ain't it? Had it analysed yet? Found out what it's
worth a ton? Got permission from the Duchy? I reckon you've done all
that. You're a fine business man. You know a good sample of nickel when
you see it."
"I left it all to you, Mr. Pendoggat. You know all about it."
Pezzack tried to say more, something about his feet and rheumatic arm
and the perspiration which blinded him, but he had no more breath.
Pendoggat's fingers were like a handcuff about his wrist.
"Suppose it ain't nickel at all. I never heard of any on Dartmoor.
They'll be down on you, Pezzack, for the money, howling at ye like so
many wolves, and if you can't pay there's prison. What are you going to
say for yourself? You can't drag me into it. If I tell you there ain't a
penn'orth of nickel down under you can't touch me. If you had proof
against me you couldn't use it, for your own sake. You'd have to keep
your mouth shut, for the sake of your wife and the family what's coming.
It's a fine thing to have a wife, and a fine thing to be expecting a
child, but it's a better thing to be sure of your position. It ain't
wise to marry when you're in debt, and when you've got a wife, and are
depending upon a man for your living, you can't make an enemy of that
man. I reckon we're on top. Bide here a bit and rest yourself."
They were on the summit of one of the big rounded hills. The heather was
stiff with frost and seemed to grate against their boots. The weather
had changed completely while they had been coming up from the chapel.
Already the stars were covered over with dense clouds which were
dropping snowflakes. There was nothing in sight, and the only sound was
the eternal roar of the Tavy in the distance. Helmen Barton was below.
The house was invisible, but the smell of its peat fire ascended.
Pendoggat was breathing noisily through his nose, while Pezzack stood
before him utterly exhausted, his weak knees trembling and knocking
against each other, and his mouth open like a dog.
"Why have you done this to me, Mr. Pendoggat?" he gasped at length.
"To make a man of you. If I have a puppy I make a dog out of him with a
whip. When I get hold of a weak man I try to knock the weakness out of
him."
"Was it because I didn't talk proper about 'ell?" sobbed the frightened
minister.
"Come on," cried Pendoggat roughly. "Let's have a bout, man. It's a fine
night for it. Put out your arms. I'll be the making of you yet. Here's
to get your blood warm."
He raised his Bible and brought it down on Pezzack's head, crushing his
hat in.
Eli stumbled aside, crying out: "Oh, Mr. Pendoggat, you don't know what
you're doing. 'Itting me with the 'oly word. Let me go home, Mr.
Pendoggat. My wife is waiting for me."
Pendoggat was too far gone to listen. He followed the wretched man,
hitting at him with the big book, driving him along the top of the hill
with resounding blows. Eli could not escape; he was unable to run, and
he was dazed; he kept on stumbling and bleating, until another good blow
on the head settled his business and sent him sprawling into the
heather.
"Get up, man," shouted Pendoggat. "Get up and make a bout of it;" but
Eli went on lying flat, sobbing and panting, and trying to pray for his
persecutor.
"Get up, or I'll walk on ye with my nailed boots."
Eli shambled up slowly like some strange quadruped, found his awkward
feet, and stood swaying and moaning before his tormentor, convinced that
he was in the hands of a madman, and terribly afraid of losing his life.
Pendoggat stood grim and silent, his head down, the Bible tucked
reverently beneath his arm, the snow whitening his shoulders. It had
become darker in the last few minutes, the clouds were pressing lower,
and the sound of the Tavy was more distant than it had been.
"'Come unto Me, all ye that labour and are heavy laden, and I will give
you rest,'" quoted Pendoggat slowly. "'Tis a cheering text for a whist
winter's night."
He had finished amusing himself, and now that he was cool again his mind
reverted naturally to his religion.
Eli could not say anything. It was as much as he could do to stand
upright. His clay-like right hand was pressed to his forehead. He was
afraid he would fall down a great many times going home.
"Shake," said Pendoggat in a friendly way. "Give me the good right hand
of fellowship, minister."
Eli heard him, comprehended the meaning of the words, and hesitated,
partly from inability to act, and partly from unwillingness to respond.
He felt he might fall down if he removed the hand from his dazed head.
He smiled in a stupid fashion and managed to say: "You 'ave been cruel
to me, Mr. Pendoggat. You 'ave used me like a beast."
Pendoggat stepped forward, caught the big cold hand in his, pulled it
roughly from the minister's forehead, and shook it heartily. Not content
with that, he dragged the poor dazed wretch nearer, threw an arm about
his neck, and kissed him on the cheek. Perhaps it was the influence of
his Spanish blood which suggested the act. Possibly it was a genuine
wave of sorrow and repentance. He did not know himself; but the
frightened Maggot only groaned and sobbed, and had no caresses to give
in return.
"'How good and joyful a thing it is, brethren, to dwell together in
unity,'" quoted Pendoggat, with the utmost reverence.