The Ordeal of Richard Feverel | Page 9

George Meredith
hum of the air. From the weather theme they fell upon the
blessings of tobacco; how it was the poor man's friend, his company,
his consolation, his comfort, his refuge at night, his first thought in the
morning.
"Better than a wife!" chuckled the tinker. "No curtain-lecturin' with a
pipe. Your pipe an't a shrew."
"That be it!" the other chimed in. "Your pipe doan't mak' ye out wi' all
the cash Saturday evenin'."
"Take one," said the tinker, in the enthusiasm of the moment, handing a
grimy short clay. Speed-the-Plough filled from the tinker's pouch, and
continued his praises.
"Penny a day, and there y'are, primed! Better than a wife? Ha, ha!"
"And you can get rid of it, if ye wants for to, and when ye wants,"
added tinker.
"So ye can!" Speed-the-Plough took him up. "And ye doan't want for to.
Leastways, t'other case. I means pipe."
"And," continued tinker, comprehending him perfectly, "it don't bring
repentance after it."
"Not nohow, master, it doan't! And"--Speed-the-Plough cocked his
eye--"it doan't eat up half the victuals, your pipe doan't."
Here the honest yeoman gesticulated his keen sense of a clincher,
which the tinker acknowledged; and having, so to speak, sealed up the
subject by saying the best thing that could be said, the two smoked for
some time in silence to the drip and patter of the shower.
Ripton solaced his wretchedness by watching them through the briar

hedge. He saw the tinker stroking a white cat, and appealing to her,
every now and then, as his missus, for an opinion or a confirmation;
and he thought that a curious sight. Speed-the-Plough was stretched at
full length, with his boots in the rain, and his head amidst the tinker's
pots, smoking, profoundly contemplative. The minutes seemed to be
taken up alternately by the grey puffs from their mouths.
It was the tinker who renewed the colloquy. Said he, "Times is bad!"
His companion assented, "Sure-ly!"
"But it somehow comes round right," resumed the tinker. "Why, look
here. Where's the good o' moping? I sees it all come round right and
tight. Now I travels about. I've got my beat. 'Casion calls me t'other day
to Newcastle!--Eh?"
"Coals!" ejaculated Speed-the-Plough sonorously.
"Coals!" echoed the tinker. "You ask what I goes there for, mayhap?
Never you mind. One sees a mort o' life in my trade. Not for coals it
isn't. And I don't carry 'em there, neither. Anyhow, I comes back.
London's my mark. Says I, I'll see a bit o' the sea, and steps aboard a
collier. We were as nigh wrecked as the prophet Paul."
"--A--who's him?" the other wished to know.
"Read your Bible," said the tinker. "We pitched and tossed--'tain't that
game at sea 'tis on land, I can tell ye! I thinks, down we're a-going--say
your prayers, Bob Tiles! That was a night, to be sure! But God's above
the devil, and here I am, ye see." Speed-the-Plough lurched round on
his elbow and regarded him indifferently. "D'ye call that doctrin'? He
bean't al'ays, or I shoo'n't be scrapin' my heels wi' nothin' to do, and,
what's warse, nothin' to eat. Why, look heer. Luck's luck, and bad luck's
the con-trary. Varmer Bollop, t'other day, has's rick burnt down. Next
night his gran'ry's burnt. What do he tak' and go and do? He takes and
goes and hangs unsel', and turns us out of his employ. God warn't
above the devil then, I thinks, or I can't make out the reckonin'."

The tinker cleared his throat, and said it was a bad case.
"And a darn'd bad case. I'll tak' my oath on't!" cried Speed-the-Plough.
"Well, look heer! Heer's another darn'd bad case. I threshed for Varmer
Blaize Blaize o' Beltharpe afore I goes to Varmer Bollop. Varmer
Blaize misses pilkins. He swears our chaps steals pilkins. 'Twarn't me
steals 'em. What do he tak' and go and do? He takes and tarns us off,
me and another, neck and crop, to scuffle about and starve, for all he
keers. God warn't above the devil then, I thinks. Not nohow, as I can
see!"
The tinker shook his head, and said that was a bad case also.
"And you can't mend it," added Speed-the-Plough. "It's bad, and there it
be. But I'll tell ye what, master. Bad wants payin' for." He nodded and
winked mysteriously. "Bad has its wages as well's honest work, I'm
thinkin'. Varmer Bollop I don't owe no grudge to: Varmer Blaize I do.
And I shud like to stick a Lucifer in his rick some dry windy night."
Speed-the-Plough screwed up an eye villainously. "He wants hittin' in
the wind,--jest where the pocket is, master, do Varmer Blaize, and he'll
cry out 'O Lor'!' Varmer Blaize will. You won't get the better o'
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