‘You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black
sheep,’
The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep:
‘He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn’t his fault if he kicked.
He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict.
His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add:
Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.’
X
This prelude dismally lengthened, till Mary, starting, exclaimed,
‘A letter, Sir, from your grandson?’ ‘Tom Bridgeman that rascal is
named,’
The old man answered, and further, the words that sent Tom to the
ranks
Repeated as words of a person to whom they all owed mighty thanks.
But Mary never blushed: with her eyes on the letter, she sate,
And twice interrupting him faltered, ‘The date, may I ask, Sir, the
date?’