“Well, I doan’t believe a word of it; an’ I’ll tell you this for your bettering,—­’tis poor religion in you, Blee, to root into other people’s troubles, like a pig in a trough; an’ auld though you be, you ’m not tu auld to mind what it felt like when the blood was hot an’ quick to race at the sight of a maid.”

“I practice same as I preach, whether or no,” said Billy stoutly, “an’ I can’t lay claim to creating nothing lawful or unlawful in my Maker’s image.  ’Tis something to say that, in these godless days.  I’ve allus kept my foot on the world, the flesh, an’ the Devil so tight as the best Christian in company; an’ if that ban’t a record for a stone, p’raps you’ll tell me a better.  Your two-edged tongue do make me feel sometimes as though I did ought to go right away from ’e, though God knaws—­God, He knaws—­”

Billy hid his face and began to weep, while Mr. Lyddon watched the candle-light converge to a shining point upon his bald skull.

“Doan’t go against a word in season, my dear sawl.  ’Tis our duty to set each other right.  That’s what we’m put here for, I doubt.  Many’s the time you’ve given me gude advice, an’ I’ve thanked ‘e an’ took it.”

Then he went for the spirits and mixed Mr. Blee a dose of more than usual strength.

“You’m the most biting user of language in Chagford, when you mind to speak sour,” declared Billy.  “If I thought you meant all you said, I’d go an’ hang myself in the barn this instant moment.  But you doan’t.”

He snuffled and dried his scanty tears on a red handkerchief, then cheered up and drank his liquor.

“It do take all sorts to make a world, an’ a man must act accordin’ as he’m built,” continued Mr. Lyddon.  “Ban’t no more use bein’ angered wi’ a chap given to women than ‘tis bein’ angered wi’ a fule, because he’s a fule.  What do ’e expect from a fule but folly, or a crab tree but useless fruit, or hot blood but the ways of it?  This ban’t to speak of Will Blanchard, though.  ’Pon him we’ll say no more till he’ve heard what’s on folks’ tongues.  A maddening bwoy—­I’ll allow you that—­an’ he’ve took a year or two off my life wan time an’ another.  ’Pears I ban’t never to graw to love un as I would; an’ yet I caan’t quite help it when I sees his whole-hearted ferment to put money into my pocket; or when I hears him talk of nitrates an’ the ways o’ the world; or watches un playin’ make-believe wi’ the childer—­himself the biggest cheel as ever laughed at fulishness or wanted spankin’ an’ putting in the corner.”

CHAPTER VIII

FLIGHT

On the following morning Miller Lyddon arose late, looked from his window and immediately observed the twain with whom his night thoughts had been concerned.  Will stood at the gate smoking; small Timothy, and another lad, of slightly riper years, appeared close by.  The children were fighting tooth and nail upon the ownership of a frog, and this reptile itself, fastened by the leg to a stick, listlessly watched the progress of the battle.  Will likewise surveyed the scene with genial attention, and encouraged the particular little angry animal who had most claim upon his interest.  Timothy kicked and struck out pretty straight, but fought in silence; the bigger boy screamed and howled and scratched.