PANIC.
Christmas Day fell on a Friday that year, and the funeral of that
ancient woman took place on the previous afternoon. The Curate had never
read the burial-service, before so small an audience. For the weather
was bitterly cold, and poor Mrs. Tremlett had outlived all her friends,
if she ever had any; no one expected a farthing from her, and no one
cared to come and shudder at her grave. Of all her many descendants
none, except the child Zip, was present; and she would have stood alone
upon the frozen bank, unless Mrs. Muggridge had very kindly offered to
come and hold the shivering and streaming little hand.
What was to be done with Zip? Nobody came forward. There were hundreds
of kind people in the parish, and dozens to whom the poor waif would
have been a scarcely perceptible burden. Yet nobody cared to have a
Tremlett at his hearth, and everybody saw the duty marked out for his
neighbour.
"Then I will take her;" said Mr. Penniloe with his true benevolence,
"but the difficulty is where to place her. She cannot well be among my
children yet, until I know more about her. And, although the old family
is so reduced, the kitchen is scarcely the place for her." However, that
question soon answered itself; and though little Zip was at first a sad
puzzle (especially to the staid Muggridge), her grateful and loving
nature soon began to win a warm hold and a tranquil home for her.
That winter, although it began rather early, was not of prolonged
severity, for the frost broke up on Christmas night, at least in the
west of England, with a heavy fall of snow which turned to rain. But
Christmas Day itself was very bright and pleasant, with bracing air,
hard frozen snow, and firm sunshine throwing long shadows on it, and
sparkling on the icicles from thatch and spout and window-frame. As the
boys of the Sunday school filed out, at the call of the bells in the
tower chiming (after long silence while the arch was being cut) and as
they formed into grand procession, under the military eye of Jakes,
joyfully they watched their cloudy breath ascending, or blew it in a
column on some other fellow's cap. Visions were before them,--a
pageantry of joy, a fortnight of holidays, a fortnight of sliding, snow
balling, bone-runners, Cooper Baker's double-hoops, why not even skates?
But alas, even now the wind was backing, as the four vanes with rare
unanimity proclaimed, a white fog that even a boy could stand out of was
stealing up the valley, while the violet tone of the too transparent
sky, and the whiteness of the sun (which used to be a dummy fireball),
and even the short sharp clack of the bells, were enough to tell any boy
with weather eyes and ears, that the nails on his heels would do no
cobbler's click again, till the holiday time was over.
But blessed are they who have no prophetic gift, be it of the weather,
or of things yet more unstable. All went to church in a happy frame of
mind; and the Parson in a like mood looked upon them. Every head was
there that he had any right to count, covered or uncovered. Of the
latter perhaps more than a Sunday would produce; of the former not so
many, but to a Christian mind enough; for how shall a great
church-festival be kept without a cook? But the ladies who were there
were in very choice attire, happy in having nothing but themselves to
dress; all in good smiling condition, and reserving for home use their
candid reviews of one another.
There was the genial and lively Mrs. Farrant, whose good word and good
sayings everybody valued; close at her side was her daughter Minnie,
provided by nature with seasonable gifts--lips more bright than the
holly-berry, teeth more pearly than mistletoe, cheeks that proved the
hardiness of the rose in Devon, and eyes that anticipated Easter-tide
with the soft glance of the Forget-me-not. Then there was Mrs. John
Horner, _interdum aspera cornu_, but _foenum habens_ for the roast-beef
time; and kind Mrs. Anning (quite quit of this tale, though the Perle
runs through her orchard), and tall Mrs. Webber with two pretty
girls--all purely distinct from the lawyer--and Mrs. James Hollyer, and
Mrs. John Hollyer, both great in hospitality; and others of equally
worthy order, for whom the kind hearts of Bright and Cobden would have
ached, had they not been blind seers.
To return to our own sheep, themselves astray, there was no denying Mrs.
Gilham, looking still a Christian, up a fathom of sea-green bonnet; and
her daughter Rose, now so demure if ever she caught a wandering eye,
that it had to come again to beg pardon; and by her side a young man
stood, with no eyes at all for the prettiest girl inside the sacred
building!
But strange as it may seem, he had eyes enough and to spare, for a young
man opposite; whose face he perused with perpetual enquiry, which the
other understood, but did not want to apprehend. For instance, "How is
your very darling sister? Have you heard from her by the latest post?
Did she say anything about me? When is she coming to Perlycross again?
Do you think she is reading the same Psalm that we are? Have they got
any Christmas parties on? I hope there is no mistletoe up that way, or
at any rate no hateful fellow near her with it?"
These, and fifty other points of private worship, not to be discovered
in the Book of Common Prayer--even by the cleverest anagram of
Ritualist--did Frank Gilham vainly strive to moot with Jemmy Fox across
the aisle, instead of being absorbed and rapt in the joyful tidings of
the day.
Neither was Jemmy Fox a ha'porth more devout. With the innate
selfishness of all young men, he had quite another dish of fish to fry
for his own plate. As for Frank Gilham's, he would upset it joyfully, in
spite of all sympathy or gratitude. And, if so low a metaphor can ever
be forgiven, Jemmy's fish, though not in sight but in a brambly corner,
was fairly hooked and might be felt; whereas Frank Gilham's, if she had
ever seen his fly, had (so far as he could be sure) never even opened
mouth to take it; but had sailed away upstream, leaving a long furrow,
as if--like the celebrated trout in Crocker's Hole--she scorned any
tackle a poor farmer could afford.
Fox, on the other hand, had reasonable hopes, that patience and
discretion and the flowing stream of time, would bring his lovely prize
to bank at last. For the chief thing still against him was that black
and wicked charge: and even now he looked at all the women in the
church, with very little interest in their features, but keen enquiry as
to their expression. His eyes put the question to them, one after
another,--"My good madam, are you still afraid of me?" And sad to say,
the answer from too many of them was--"Well, I had rather not shake
hands with you, till you have cleared your reputation." So certain is it
that if once a woman has believed a thing--be it good, or be it
evil--nothing but the evidence of her own eyes will uproot that belief;
and sometimes not even that.
Especially now with Lady Waldron, Fox felt certain that his case stood
thus; that in spite of all the arguments of Christie and of Inez, he was
not yet acquitted, though less stubbornly condemned; and as long as that
state of things lasted, he could not (with proper self-respect) press
his suit upon the daughter. For it should be observed that he had no
doubt yet of the genuine strength of her ladyship's suspicions. Mr.
Penniloe had not thought it right or decent, placed as he was towards
the family, to impart to young Jemmy Sir Harrison Gowler's hateful
(because misogynic) conclusions.
That excellent preacher, and noble exemplar, the Reverend Philip
Penniloe, gave out his text in a fine sonorous voice, echoing through
the great pillars of his heart, three words--as many as can ever rouse
an echo--and all of them short,--"On earth, peace."
He was gazing on his flock with large good will, and that desire to see
the best side of them which is creditable to both parties; for take them
altogether they were a peaceful flock--when a crack, as of thunder and
lightning all in one, rang in every ear, and made a stop in every heart.
Before any body could start up to ask about it, a cavernous rumble
rolled into a quick rattle; and then deep silence followed.
Nervous folk started up, slower persons stared about, even the coolest
and most self-possessed doubted their arrangements for the Day of
Judgment. The sunlight was shining through the south aisle windows, and
none could put the blame on any storm outside.
Then panic arose, as at a trumpet-call. People huddled anyhow, to rush
out of their pews, without even sense enough to turn the button-latch.
Bald heads were plunging into long-ribboned bonnets, fathers forgot
their children, young men their sweethearts, but mothers pushed their
little ones before them. "Fly for dear life"--was the impulse of the
men; "save the life dearer than my own"--was of the women. That is the
moment to be sure what love is.
"Sit still boys, or I'll skin you"--Sergeant Jakes' voice was heard
above the uproar; many believed that the roof was falling in; every kind
of shriek and scream abounded.
"My friends," said Mr. Penniloe, in a loud clear voice, and lifting up
his Bible calmly, "remember in Whose house, and in Whose hands we are.
It is but a fall of something in the chancel. It cannot hurt you.
Perhaps some brave man will go behind the screen, and just tell us what
has happened. I would go myself, if I could leave the pulpit."
People were ashamed, when they saw little Fay run from her seat to the
newly-finished steps, and begin groping at the canvas, while she smiled
up at her father. In a moment three men drew her back and passed in.
They were Jemmy Fox, Frank Gilham, and the gallant Jakes; and a cloud of
dust floated out as they vanished. Courage returned and the rush and
crush was stayed, while Horner and Farrant, the two churchwardens, came
with long strides to join the explorers.
Deep silence reigned when Doctor Fox returned, and at the request of
Farmer John, addressed the Parson so that all could hear. "There is no
danger, sir, of any further fall. There has been a sort of settlement of
the south-east corner. The stone screen is cracked, and one end of it
has dropped, and the small lancet window has tumbled in. All is now
quite firm again. There is not the smallest cause for fear."
"Thank God!" said Mr. Penniloe, "and thank you my friends, for telling
us. And now, as soon as order is quite restored, I shall beg to return
to the discussion of my text, which with your permission I will read
again."
As soon as he had finished a very brief discourse, worthy of more
attention than it could well secure, his flock hurried gladly away, with
much praise of his courage and presence of mind, but no thought of the
heavy loss and sad blow cast upon him. Fox alone remained behind, to
offer aid and sympathy, when the Parson laid his gown aside and came to
learn the worst of it. They found that the south-east corner of the
chancel-wall, with the external quoin and two buttresses, had parted
from the rest, and sunk bodily to the depth of a yard or more, bearing
away a small southern window, a portion of the roof and several panels
of that equally beautiful and unlucky screen.
At a rough guess, at least another hundred pounds would be required to
make good the damage. It was not only this, but the sense of mishaps so
frequent and unaccountable--few of which have been even mentioned
here--that now began to cast heavy weight and shadow, upon the cheerful
heart of Penniloe. For it seemed as if all things combined against him,
both as regarded the work itself, and the means by which alone it could
be carried on. And this last disaster was the more depressing, because
no cause whatever could be found for it. That wall had not been meddled
with in any way externally, because it seemed quite substantial. And
even inside there had been but little done to it, simply a shallow
excavation made, for the plinth, or footings, of the newly erected
screen.
"Never mind, sir," said Fox; "it can soon be put to rights; and your
beautiful screen will look ever so much better without that lancet
window, which has always appeared to me quite out of place."
"Perhaps," replied the Parson, in a sad low voice, and with a shake of
his head which meant--"all very fine; but how on earth am I to get the
money?"
Even now the disaster was not complete. Subscriptions had grown slack,
and some had even been withdrawn, on the niggardly plea that no church
was worth preserving, which could not protect even its own dead. And now
the news of this occurrence made that matter worse again, for the blame
of course fell upon Penniloe. "What use to help a man, who cannot help
himself?" "A fellow shouldn't meddle with bricks and mortar, unless he
was brought up to them." "I like him too well, to give him another
penny. If I did he'd pull the tower down upon his own head." Thus and
thus spoke they who should have flown to the rescue; some even friendly
enough to deal the coward's blow at the unfortunate.
Moreover, that very night the frost broke up, with a fall of ten inches
of watery snow, on the wet back of which came more than half an inch of
rain, the total fall being two inches and three quarters. The ground was
too hard to suck any of it in; water by the acre lay on streaky fields
of ground-ice; every gateway poured its runnel, and every flinty lane
its torrent. The Perle became a roaring flood, half a mile wide in the
marshes; and the Susscot brook dashed away the old mill-wheel, and
whirled some of it down as far as Joe Crang's anvil, fulfilling thereby
an old prophecy. Nobody could get--without swimming horse or self--from
Perlycombe to Perlycross, or from Perlycross to Perliton; and old mother
Pods was drowned in her own cottage. The view of the valley, from either
Beacon Hill or Hagdon, was really grand for any one tall enough to wade
so far up the weltering ways. Old Channing vowed that he had never seen
such a flood, and feared that the big bridge would be washed away; but
now was seen the value of the many wide arches, which had puzzled
Christie Fox in the distance. Alas for the Hopper, that he was so far
away at this noble time for a cross-country run! But he told Pike
afterwards, and Mrs. Muggridge too, that he had a good time of it, even
in the Mendips.
In this state of things, the condition of the chancel, with the
shattered roof yawning to the reek of the snow-slides, and a Southern
gale hurling floods in at the wall-gaps, may better be imagined than
described, as a swimming rat perhaps reported to his sodden family. And
people had a fine view of it at the Sunday service, for the canvas
curtain had failed to resist the swag and the bellying of the blast, and
had fallen in a squashy pile, and formed a rough breakwater for the
mortary lake behind it.
There was nothing to be done for the present except to provide against
further mischief. The masons from Exeter had left work, by reason of the
frost, some time ago; but under the directions of Mr. Richard Horner the
quoin was shored up, and the roof and window made waterproof with
tarpaulins. So it must remain till Easter now; when the time of year,
and possibly a better tide of money, might enable beaten Christians to
put shoulder to the hod again. Meanwhile was there any chance of finding
any right for the wrong, which put every man who looked forward to his
grave out of all conceit with Perlycross?
"Vaither, do 'e care to plaze your luving darter, as 'e used to doo? Or
be 'e channged, and not the zame to her?"
"The vurry za-am. The vurry za-am," Mr. Penniloe answered, with his eyes
glad to rest on her, yet compelled by his conscience to correct her
vowel sounds. It had long been understood between them, that Fay might
forsake upon occasion what we now call 'higher culture,' and try her
lissome tongue at the soft Ionic sounds, which those who know nothing of
the West call _Doric_.
"Then vaither," cried the child, rising to the situation; "whatt vor do
'e putt both han's avore the eyes of 'e? The Lard in heaven can zee 'e,
arl the zaam."
The little girl was kneeling with both elbows on a chair, and her chin
set up stedfastly between her dimpled hands, while her clear eyes,
gleaming with the tears she was repressing, dwelt upon her father's
downcast face.
"My darling, my own darling, you are the image of your mother," Mr.
Penniloe exclaimed, as he rose, and caught her up. "What is the mammon
of this world to heaven's angels?"
After that his proper course would have been to smoke a pipe, if that
form of thank-offering had been duly recommended by the rising school of
Churchmen. His omission however was soon repaired; for, before he could
even relapse towards "the blues," the voice of a genuine smoker was
heard, and the step of a man of substance, the time being now the
afternoon of Monday.
"Halloa, Penniloe!" this gentleman exclaimed; "How are you, this
frightful weather? Very glad to see you. Made a virtue of necessity;
can't have the hounds out, and so look up my flock. Never saw the waters
out so much in all my life. _Nancy_ had to swim at Susscot ford. Thought
we should have been washed down, but Crang threw us a rope. Says nobody
could cross yesterday. _Nancy_ must have a hot wash, please Mrs.
Muggridge. I'll come and see to it, if you'll have the water hot.
Harry's looking after her till I come back. Like to see a boy that takes
kindly to a horse. What a job I had to get your back-gate open! Never
use your stable-yard, it seems. Beats me, how any man can live without a
horse! Well, my dear fellow, I hope the world only deals with you,
according to your merits. Bless my heart, why, that can never be Fay!
What a little beauty! Got a kiss to spare, my dear? Don't be afraid of
me. Children always love me. Got one little girl just your height. Won't
I make her jealous, when I get home? Got something in my vady, that will
make your pretty eyes flash. Come, come, Penniloe, this won't do. You
don't look at all the thing. Want a thirty mile ride, and a drop of
brown mahogany--put a little colour into your learned face. Just you
should have a look at my son, Jack. Mean him for this little puss, if
ever he grows good enough. Not a bad fellow though. And how's your
little Mike? Why there he is, peeping round the corner! I'll have it out
with him, when I've had some dinner. Done yours, I daresay? Anything
will do for me. A rasher of bacon, and a couple of poached eggs is a
dinner for a lord, I say. You don't eat enough, that's quite certain.
Saw an awful thing in the papers last week. Parsons are going to
introduce fasting! Protestant parsons, mind you! Can't believe it. Shall
have to join the Church of Rome, if they do. All jolly fellows
there--never saw a lean one. I suppose I am about the last man you
expected to turn up. Glad to see you though, upon my soul! You don't
like that expression--ha, how well I know your face! Strictly clerical I
call it though; or at any rate, professional. But bless my heart
alive--if you like that better--what has all our parish been about? Why
a dead man belongs to the parson, not the doctor. The doctors have done
for him, and they ought to have done with him. But we parsons never back
one another up. Not enough colour in the cloth, I always say. Getting
too much of black, and all black."
The Rev. John Chevithorne, Rector of the parish, was doing his best at
the present moment to relieve "the cloth" of that imputation. For his
coat was dark green, and his waistcoat of red shawl-stuff, and his
breeches of buff corduroy, while his boots--heavy jack-boots coming
halfway up the thigh--might have been of any colour under the sun,
without the sun knowing what the colour was, so spattered, and
plastered, and cobbed with mud were they. And throughout all his talk,
he renewed the hand-shakes, in true pump-handle fashion, at short
intervals, for he was strongly attached to his Curate. They had been at
the same College, and on the same staircase; and although of different
standing and very different characters, had taken to one another with a
liking which had increased as years went on. Mr. Penniloe had an
Englishman's love of field-sports; and though he had repressed it from
devotion to his calling, he was too good a Christian to condemn those
who did otherwise.
"Chevithorne, I have wanted you most sadly," he said, as soon as his
guest was reclad from his vady, and had done ample justice to rashers
and eggs; "I am really ashamed of it, but fear greatly that I shall have
to be down upon you again. Children, you may go, and get a good run
before dark. Things have been going on--in fact the Lord has not seemed
to prosper this work at all."
"If you are going to pour forth a cloud of sorrows, you won't mind my
blowing one of comfort."
The Rector was a pleasant man to look at, and a pleasant one to deal
with, if he liked his customer. But a much sharper man of the world than
his Curate; prompt, resolute, and penetrating, short in his manner, and
when at all excited, apt to indulge himself in the language of the
laity.
"Well," he said, after listening to the whole Church history, "I am not
a rich man, as you know, my friend. People suppose that a man with three
livings must be rolling in money, and all that. They never think twice
of the outgoings. And Jack goes to Oxford in January. That means
something, as you and I know well. Though he has promised me not to hunt
there; and he is a boy who never goes back from his word. But Chancel of
course is my special business. Will you let me off for fifty, at any
rate for the present? And don't worry yourself about the debt. We'll
make it all right among us. Our hunt will come down with another fifty,
if I put it before them to the proper tune, when they come back to work,
after this infernal muck. Only you mustn't look like this. The world
gets worse and worse, every day, and can't spare the best man it
contains. You should have seen the rick of hay I bought last week, just
because I didn't push my knuckles into it. Thought I could trust my
brother Tom's churchwarden. And Tom laughs at me; which digs it in too
hard. Had a rise out of him last summer though, and know how to do him
again for Easter-offerings. Tom is too sharp for a man who has got no
family. Won't come down with twopence for Jack's time at Oxford. And he
has got all the Chevithorne estates, you know. Nothing but the copyhold
came to me. Always the way of the acres, with a man who could put a
child to stand on every one of them. However, you never hear me
complain. But surely you ought to get more out of those Waldrons. An
offering to the Lord _in memoriam_--a proper view of chastisement; have
you tried to work it up?"
"I have not been able to take that view of it," Mr. Penniloe answered,
smiling for a moment, though doubtful of the right to do so. "How can I
ask them for another farthing, after what has happened? And leaving
that aside, I am now in a position in which it would be unbecoming. You
may have heard that I am Trustee for a part of the Waldron estates, to
secure a certain sum for the daughter, Nicie."
"Then that puts it out of the question," said the Rector; "I know what
those trust-plagues are. I call them a tax upon good repute. 'The
friendly balm that breaks the head.' I never understood that passage,
till in a fool's moment I accepted a Trusteeship. However, go on with
that Waldron affair. They are beginning to chaff me about it shamefully,
now that their anger and fright are gone by. Poor as I am, I would give
a hundred pounds, for the sake of the parish, to have it all cleared up.
But the longer it goes on, the darker it gets. You used to be famous for
concise abstracts. Do you remember our Thucydides? Wasn't it old Short
that used to put a year of the war on an oyster-shell, and you beat him
by putting it on a thumbnail? Give us in ten lines all the theories of
the great Perlycrucian mystery. Ready in a moment. I'll jot them down.
What's the Greek for Perlycross? Puzzle even you, I think, that would.
Number them, one, two, and so on. There must be a dozen by this time."
Mr. Penniloe felt some annoyance at this too jocular view of the
subject; but he bore in mind that his Rector was not so sadly bound up
with it, as his own life was. So he set down, as offering the shortest
form, the names of those who had been charged with the crime, either by
the public voice, or by private whisper.
1. Fox.
2. Gronow.
3. Gowler.
4. Some other medical man of those parts--conjecture founded very often
upon the last half-year's account.
5. Lady Waldron herself.
6. Some relative of hers, with or without her knowledge.
"Now I think that exhausts them," the Curate continued, "and I will
discuss them in that order. No. 1 is the general opinion still. I mean
that of the great majority, outside the parish, and throughout the
county. None who knew Jemmy could conceive it, and those who know
nothing of him will dismiss it, I suppose, when they hear of his long
attachment to Miss Waldron.
"Nos. 2, 3, and 4, may also be dismissed, being founded in each case on
personal dislikes, without a _scintilla_ of evidence to back it. As
regards probability, No. 4 would take the lead; for Gronow, and Gowler,
are out of the question. The former has given up practice, and hates it,
except for the benefit of his friends. And as for Gowler, he could have
no earthly motive. He understood the case as well as if he had seen it;
and his whole time is occupied with his vast London practice. But No. 4
also is reduced to the very verge of impossibility. There is no one at
Exeter, who would dream of such things. No country practitioner would
dare it, even if the spirit of research could move him. And as for Bath,
and Bristol, I have received a letter from Gowler disposing of all
possibility there."
"Who suggested No. 5? That seems a strange idea. What on earth should
Lady Waldron do it for?"
"Gowler suggested it. I tell you in the strictest confidence,
Chevithorne. Of course you will feel that. I have told no one else, and
I should not have told you, except that I want your advice about it. You
have travelled in Spain. You know much of Spanish people. I reject the
theory altogether; though Gowler is most positive, and laughs at my
objections. You remember him, of course?"
"I should think so," said the Rector, "a wonderfully clever fellow, but
never much liked. Nobody could ever get on with him, but you; and two
more totally different men--however, an opinion of his is worth
something. What motive could he discover for it?"
"Religious feelings. Narrow, if you like--for we are as Catholic as they
are--but very strong, as one could well conceive, if only they suited
the character. The idea would be, that the wife, unable to set aside the
husband's wishes openly, or unwilling to incur the odium of it, was
secretly resolved upon his burial elsewhere, and with the rites which
she considered needful."
"It is a most probable explanation. I wonder that it never occurred to
you. Gowler has hit the mark. What a clever fellow! And see how it
exculpates the parish! I shall go back, with a great weight off my
mind. Upon my soul, Penniloe, I am astonished that you had to go to
London, to find out this _a_, _b_, _c_. If I had been over here a little
more often, I should have hit upon it, long ago."
"Chevithorne, I think that very likely," the Curate replied, with the
mildness of those who let others be rushed off their legs by themselves.
"The theory is plausible,--accounts for everything,--fits in with the
very last discoveries, proves this parish, and even the English nation,
guiltless. Nevertheless, it is utterly wrong; according at least to my
view of human nature."
"Your view of human nature was always too benevolent. That was why
everybody liked you so. But, my dear fellow, you have lived long enough
now, to know that it only does for Christmas-day sermons."
"I have not lived long enough, and hope to do so never," Mr. Penniloe
answered very quietly; but with a manner, which the other understood, of
the larger sight looking over hat-crowns. "Will you tell me,
Chevithorne, upon what points you rely? And then, I will tell you what I
think of them."
"Why, if it comes to argument, what chance have I against you? You can
put things, and I can't. But I can sell a horse, and you can buy
it--fine self-sacrifice on your side. I go strictly upon common sense. I
have heard a lot of that Lady Waldron. I have had some experience of
Spanish ladies. Good and bad, no doubt, just as English ladies are. It
is perfectly obvious to my mind, that Lady Waldron has done all this."
"To my mind," replied Mr. Penniloe, looking stedfastly at the Rector,
"it is equally obvious that she has not."
"Upon what do you go?" asked the Rector, rather warmly, for he prided
himself on his knowledge of mankind, though admitting very handsomely
his ignorance of books.
"I go upon my faith in womankind." The Curate spoke softly, as if such a
thing were new, and truly it was not at all in fashion then. "This woman
loved her husband. Her grief was deep and genuine. His wishes were
sacred to her. She is quite incapable of double-dealing. And indeed, I
would say, that if ever there was a straightforward simple-hearted
woman----"
"If ever, if ever," replied Mr. Chevithorne, with a fine indulgent
smile. "But upon the whole, I think well of them. Let us have a game of
draughts, my dear fellow, where the Queens jump over all the poor men."
"Kings, we call them here," answered Mr. Penniloe.