I was most fortunate in obtaining the services of a man living in a neighbouring village, not only as estate carpenter, but as a skilled joiner, and possessing all the knowledge and efficiency of an experienced builder.  When I first met him, or very soon afterwards, Tom G. was a teetotaller, and I have always had immense admiration for the strength of will which enabled him to conquer completely the drink habit, for he freely admitted that he was entirely mastered by it in his younger days.  He told me, and it proves what a kindly word will sometimes do, that the Squire of his village, who also employed him largely, said to him, after praising some of his work, “There’s only one thing the matter with you, Tom, and that’s the drink.”  “I went home,” said Tom, “and I thought to myself, if the drink is all that’s wrong with me, what a fool I must be to continue it.  Next day I went to Evesham and signed the pledge, and I’ve never touched a drop since, though the smell and the sight of a public-house have been so sore a temptation that many a time after a long day’s work, and with money in my pocket, I’ve gone a mile or two out of my way in order not to pass a place of the sort.”

His training as a carpenter had induced habits of great accuracy, exact method, and lucid thought, and a chat with him, and watching his quick and clever workmanship, was an educational opportunity.  I have always been fascinated by such work, and one of my earliest recollections is of being taken by my father to interview a carpenter about some small household job.  His name was Snewin—­I am not sure of the spelling, for I was only about eight years old at the time—­and we found him in his workshop vigorously using a long plane on some red deal boards, his feet buried in beautifully curled shavings, and the whole place redolent of the delicious scent of turpentine.  Every time his plane travelled along the edge, to my childish fancy, the board said in plaintive tones of remonstrance, in crescendo, his name, “Snewin, Snewin,” and again, “SNEWIN,” and even now the scent and action of planing a deal board always brings back the scene clearly to my mind.

I suppose, therefore, it was partly old associations that induced the fascination of watching Tom G. at his work, but there were other reasons.  With his axe, the edge beautifully ground and sharpened to a razor-like finish, he could trim a piece of wood, or shape it, so neatly that it presented almost the appearance of having been planed; his saw, with no apparent effort, raced from end to end of a board or across the grain of a piece of “quartering,” and his chisels and plane irons were ground to the correct concave bevel that relieves the parting of a chip or shaving, and gives what he called “sweetness” to the cutting action.  He was a strong Conservative, good at an argument, and had many heated discussions with some of my men whose tendencies leaned to the opposite side; but his sound logic and common sense were observable in all his ideas, and I think he generally came off best as a shrewd and clear-headed debater, for from his employment in various places his horizon was wider than that of the ordinary farm labourers.