oiterin' round an' arrangin' yer subjec' under heads when _he's_
about. You don't get no pulpit; an', what's more, you don't stop to
touch your hat when you makes your congees. 'Tes just pull hot-foot,
and thank the Lord for hedges; 'cos he's so full o' his own notions
as a Temp'rance speaker, an' bound to convence 'ee, ef he rams
daylight in 'ee to do et. That's a bull. An' here's anuther p'int;
he lays head to ground when hes beliefs be crossed, an' you may so
well whissle as try the power o' the human eye--talkin' o' which puts
me i' mind o' some curious fac's as happ'n'd up to Penhellick wan
time, along o' this same power o' the human eye. Maybe you'd like to
hear the yarn."

"Eh?" Mr. Fogo roused himself from his abstraction. "Yes, certainly,
I should like to hear it."

Caleb knocked his pipe meditatively against the bars of the grate;
filled it again and lit it; took an energetic pull or two, and then,
after another hard look at his master across the clouds of smoke,
began without more ado.

CHAPTER XI.

OF A WESLEYAN MINISTER THAT WOULD IMPROVE UPON NATURE, AND THEREBY
TRAINED A ROOK TO GOOD PRINCIPLES.

"Well, sir, et all happen'd when I lived up to Penhellick, an'
worked long wi' Varmer Mennear. Ould Lawyer Mennear, as he was
a-nicknamed--a little cribbage-faced man, wi' a dandy-go-russet wig,
an' on'y wan eye: leastways, he hadn' but wan fust along when I
knowed 'n. That's what the yarn's about, tho'; so us'll go slow, ef
you plaise, an' hush a bit, as Mary Beswetherick said to th'
ingine-driver.

"Now, Lawyer Mennear was a circuit-preacher, o' the Wesleyan Methody
persuash'n, tho' he'd a-got to cross-pupposes wi' the rest o' the
brethren an' runned a sect all to hissel', which he called th' United
Free Church o' 'Rig'nal Seceders. They was called 'Rig'nal Seceders
for short, an' th' ould man had a toler'ble dacent followin', bein' a
fust-class mover o' souls an' powerful hot agen th' unregenrit, which
didn' prevent hes bein' a miserable ould varmint, an' so deep as
Garrick in hes ord'nary dealin's. Aw, he was a reg'lar split-fig,
an' 'ud go where the devil can't, an' that's atween the oak an' the
rind."

"I see," said Mr. Fogo.

"Iss, sir. Why, the very fust day I tuk sarvice--I was a tiny tacker
then--he says to me, 'Caleb, my boy, you'm lookin' all skin an' bones
for the present, but there's no knawin' what Penhellick beef and
pudden may do for 'ee yet, ef 'tes eaten wi' a tha