orious among his mates for the gloomy view he took of
life. No one had ever discovered in him enthusiasm for anything. If
he went to a football match and the team he favoured were beaten, it
was no more than he expected; if they were victorious his comment would
be that they ought to have scored more goals. If the horse he backed
won, he blamed fate because his stake was so small. The more beer he
absorbed the more misanthropic he seemed to become.

"Funny coves, parsons," remarked Bindle conversationally; "not as I've
any think to say agin' religion, providin' it's kep' for Sundays and
Good Fridays, an' don't get mixed up wi' the rest of the week."

He paused and lifted the newly-filled tankard to his lips. Presently
he continued reminiscently:

"My father 'ad religion, and drunk 'isself to death 'keepin' the chill
out.' Accordin' to 'im, if yer wanted to be 'appy in the next world
yer 'ad to be a sort of 'alf fish in this. 'E could tell the tale, 'e
could, and wot's more, 'e used to make us believe 'im." Bindle laughed
at the recollection. "Two or three times a week 'e used to go to
chapel to 'wash 'is sins away,' winter an' summer. The parson seemed
to 'ave to wash the 'ole bloomin' lot of 'em, and my father never
forgot to take somethink on 'is way 'ome to keep the chill out, 'e was
that careful of 'isself.

"'My life is Gawd's,' 'e used to say, 'an' I must take care of wot is
the Lord's.' There weren't no spots on my father. Why, 'e used to wet
'is 'air to prove 'e'd been ''mersed,' as 'e called it. You'd 'ave
liked 'im, Ginger; 'e was a gloomy sort of cove, same as you."

Ginger muttered something inarticulate, and buried his freckles and
spots in his tankard. Bindle carefully filled his short clay pipe and
lit it with a care and precision more appropriate to a cigar.

"No," he continued, "I ain't nothink agin' religion; it's the people
wot goes in for it as does me. There's my brother-in-law, 'Earty by
name, an' my missis--they must make 'eaven tired with their moanin'."

"Wot jer marry 'er for?" grumbled Ginger thickly, not with any show of
interest, but as if to demonstrate that he was still awake.

"Ginger!" There was reproach in Bindle's voice. "Fancy you arstin' a
silly question like that. Don't yer know as _no_ man ever marries any
woman? If 'e's nippy 'e gets orf the 'ook; if 'e ain't 'e's landed.
You an' me wasn't nippy enough, ole son, an' 'ere we are."

"There's somethin' in