played also:  but he put himself, so to speak, to Sunday school, where, besides learning lots of queer things about God and Jesus Christ which interested him keenly, he could shine above his fellows by recitations of collects and bits of Catechism, which did not interest him at all.  Then he won scores of good-conduct cards, gaudy treasures, with pictures of Daniel in the Lions’ Den and the Marriage of Cana and such like, which he secreted preciously beneath a loose slab in the scullery floor.  He did not show them to his mother, knowing that she would tear them up and bang him over the head; and for similar reasons he refrained from telling her of the Sunday-school treat.  If she came to hear of it, as possibly she would through one of the little Buttons, who might pick up the news in the street, he would be soundly beaten.  But there was a chance of her not hearing, and he desired to be no more of a blight than he could help.  So Paul, vagabond and self-reliant from his babyhood, turned up at the Sunday-school treat, hatless and coatless, his dirty little toes visible through the holes in his boots, and his shapeless and tattered breeches secured to his person by a single brace.  The better-dressed urchins moved away from him and made rude remarks, after the generous manner of their kind; but Paul did not care.  Pariahdom was his accustomed portion.  He was there for his own pleasure.  They were going to ride in a train.  They were going to have a wonderful afternoon in a nobleman’s park, a place all grass and trees, elusive to the imagination.  There was a stupefying prospect of wondrous things in profusion to eat and drink-jam, ginger-beer, cake!  So rumour had it; and to unsophisticated Paul rumour was gospel truth.  With all these unexperienced joys before him, what cared he for the blankety little blanks who gibed at him?  If you imagine that little Paul Kegworthy formulated his thoughts as would the angel choir-boy in the pictures, you are mistaken.  The baby language of Bludston would petrify the foc’sle of a tramp, steamer.  The North of England is justly proud of its virility.

The Sunday school, marshalled by curates and teachers, awaited the party from the vicarage.  The thick and darkened sunshine of Bludston flooded the asphalt of the yard, which sent up a reek of heat, causing curates to fan themselves with their black straw hats, and little boys in clean collars to wriggle in sticky discomfort, while in the still air above the ignoble town hung the heavy pall of smoke.  Presently there was the sound of wheels and the sight of the head of the vicar’s coachman above the coping of the schoolyard wall.  Then the gates opened and the vicar and his wife and Miss Merewether, her daughter, and Maisie Shepherd appeared and were immediately greeted by curates and teachers.