"That's never Gable Oak's grandson over at Norcombe -- never!" he said, as a formula expressive of surprise, which nobody was supposed to take literally'.
"My father and my grandfather were old men of the name of Gabriel." said the shepherd, placidly.
"Thought I knowed the man's face as I seed him on the rick! -- thought I did! And where be ye trading o't to now, shepherd?"
"I'm thinking of biding here." said Mr. Oak.
"Knowed yer grandfather for years and years!"
continued the maltster, the words coming forth of their own accord as if the momentum previously imparted had been sufficient.
"Ah -- and did you!"
"Knowed yer grandmother."
"And her too!"
"Likewise knowed yer father when he was a child.
Why, my boy Jacob there and your father were sworn brothers -- that they were sure -- weren't ye, Jacob?"
"Ay, sure." said his son, a young man about sixtyfive, with a semi-bald head and one tooth in the left centre of his upper jaw, which made much of itself by standing prominent, like a milestone in a bank. "But "twas Joe had most to do with him. However, my son William must have knowed the very man afore us -didn't ye, Billy, afore ye left Norcombe?"
"No, 'twas Andrew." said Jacob's son Billy, a child of forty, or thereabouts, who manifested the peculiarity of possessing a cheerful soul in a gloomy body, and whose whiskers were assuming a chinchilla shade here and there.
"I can mind Andrew." said Oak, "as being a man in the place when I was quite a child."
"Ay -- the other day I and my youngest daughter, Liddy, were over at my grandson's christening." continued Billy. "We were talking about this very family, and "twas only last Purification Day in this very world, when the use-money is gied away to the second-best poor folk, you know, shepherd, and I can mind the day because they all had to traypse up to the vestry -- yes, this very man's family."
"Come, shepherd, and drink. 'Tis gape and swaller with us -- a drap of sommit, but not of much account." said the maltster, removing from the fire his eyes, which were vermilion-red and bleared by gazing into it for so many years. "Take up the God-forgiveme, Jacob. See if 'tis warm, Jacob."
Jacob stooped to the God-forgive-me, which was a two-handled tall mug standing in the ashes, cracked and charred with heat: it was rather furred with extraneous matter about the outside, especially in the crevices of the handles, the innermost curves of which may not have seen daylight for several years by reason of this encrustation thereon -- formed of ashes accidentally wetted with cider and baked hard; but to the mind of any sensible drinker the cup was no worse for that, being incontestably clean on the inside and about the rim. It may be observed that such a class of mug is called a God-forgive-me in Weatherbury and its vicinity for uncertain reasons; probably because its size makes any given toper feel ashamed of himself when he sees its bottom in drinking it empty.