“But, surely, John Wesley himself is a Clerk in Holy Orders? and, I have heard, a great stickler for the Church’s authority.”

“He may say so, sir,” answered the little man, darkly.  “He may say so.  But, if he means it, why does he go about encouraging such a low class of people?  A man, sir, is known by the company he keeps.”

“Is that in the Bible?” my father inquired.  “I seem to remember, on the contrary, that in the matter of consorting with publicans and sinners—­”

“It won’t work, sir.  It has been tried in Axminster before now, and you may take my word for it that it won’t work.  You mustn’t suppose, gentlemen,” he went on, including us all in the argument, “you mustn’t take me for one of those parrot-Christians who just echo what they hear in the pulpits on Sundays.  I think about these things; and I find that your extreme doctrines may do all very well for the East and for hot countries where you can go about half-naked and nobody takes any notice; but the Church of England, as its name implies, is the only Church for England.  A truly Christian Church, gentlemen, because it selects its doctrines from the Gospels; and English, sir, to the core, because it selects ’em with a special view to the needs of our beloved country.  And what (if I may so put it) is the basis of that selection?  The same, sirs, which we all admit to be the basis of England’s welfare and the foundation of her society; in other words, the land.  The land, gentlemen, is solid; and our reformed religion (say what you will, I am not denying that it has, and will ever have, its detractors) is the religion for solid Englishmen.”

My father put out a hand and arrested Mr. Fett, who had been regarding the speaker with joyful admiration, and at this point made a movement to embrace him.

“I must have his name!” murmured Mr. Fett.  “He shall at least tell us his name!”

“Badcock, sir; Ebenezer Badcock,” answered the little man, producing a black-edged visiting-card.

“But,” urged my father, “you must forgive us, Mr. Badcock, if we find it hard to reconcile your conduct this morning with these sentiments, on which, for the moment, I offer no comment except that they are admirably expressed.  What song the Sirens sang, Mr. Badcock, or what name Achilles assumed when he hid himself among women, are questions (as Sir Thomas Browne observes) not beyond conjecture, albeit the Emperor Tiberius posed his grammarians with ’em.  But when a man openly champions street-preaching, and goes on to lay about him with a mace—­”

“Ah!” exclaimed Mr. Badcock, with sudden eagerness.  “And what—­by the way, sir—­did you think of that performance?”

“Why, to be sure, you behaved valiantly.”

The little man blushed with pleasure.  “You really think so?  It struck you in that light, did it?  Well, now I am glad—­yes, sir, and proud—­to hear that opinion; because, to tell you the truth, I thought it pretty fair myself.  The fact is, gentlemen, I wasn’t altogether sure what my behaviour would be at the critical moment.  You may deem it strange that a man should arrive at my time of life without being sure whether he’s a coward or a brave man; but Axminster—­if you knew the place—­affords few opportunities for that sort of thing.”