It is clear at a glance that the next workman is Adam’s brother.  He is nearly as tall; he has the same type of features, the same hue of hair and complexion; but the strength of the family likeness seems only to render more conspicuous the remarkable difference of expression both in form and face.  Seth’s broad shoulders have a slight stoop; his eyes are grey; his eyebrows have less prominence and more repose than his brother’s; and his glance, instead of being keen, is confiding and benign.  He has thrown off his paper cap, and you see that his hair is not thick and straight, like Adam’s, but thin and wavy, allowing you to discern the exact contour of a coronal arch that predominates very decidedly over the brow.

The idle tramps always felt sure they could get a copper from Seth; they scarcely ever spoke to Adam.

The concert of the tools and Adam’s voice was at last broken by Seth, who, lifting the door at which he had been working intently, placed it against the wall, and said, “There!  I’ve finished my door to-day, anyhow.”

The workmen all looked up; Jim Salt, a burly, red-haired man known as Sandy Jim, paused from his planing, and Adam said to Seth, with a sharp glance of surprise, “What!  Dost think thee’st finished the door?”

“Aye, sure,” said Seth, with answering surprise; “what’s awanting to’t?”

A loud roar of laughter from the other three workmen made Seth look round confusedly.  Adam did not join in the laughter, but there was a slight smile on his face as he said, in a gentler tone than before, “Why, thee’st forgot the panels.”

The laughter burst out afresh as Seth clapped his hands to his head, and coloured over brow and crown.

“Hoorray!” shouted a small lithe fellow called Wiry Ben, running forward and seizing the door.  “We’ll hang up th’ door at fur end o’ th’ shop an’ write on’t ‘Seth Bede, the Methody, his work.’  Here, Jim, lend’s hould o’ th’ red pot.”

“Nonsense!” said Adam.  “Let it alone, Ben Cranage.  You’ll mayhap be making such a slip yourself some day; you’ll laugh o’ th’ other side o’ your mouth then.”

“Catch me at it, Adam.  It’ll be a good while afore my head’s full o’ th’ Methodies,” said Ben.

“Nay, but it’s often full o’ drink, and that’s worse.”

Ben, however, had now got the “red pot” in his hand, and was about to begin writing his inscription, making, by way of preliminary, an imaginary S in the air.

“Let it alone, will you?” Adam called out, laying down his tools, striding up to Ben, and seizing his right shoulder.  “Let it alone, or I’ll shake the soul out o’ your body.”

Ben shook in Adam’s iron grasp, but, like a plucky small man as he was, he didn’t mean to give in.  With his left hand he snatched the brush from his powerless right, and made a movement as if he would perform the feat of writing with his left.  In a moment Adam turned him round, seized his other shoulder, and, pushing him along, pinned him against the wall.  But now Seth spoke.