'Yes, four,' threw in Sammy Blore, with additional weight of experience.

'For you want one in front for breast-ploughing and such like, one at the

right side for ground-dressing, and one at the left side for turning

mixens.' 'Well; then next I'd move every man's wyndpipe a good span away from his

glutchpipe, so that at harvest time he could fetch breath in 's drinking,

without being choked and strangled as he is now. Thinks I, when I feel

the victuals going--' 'Now, we'll begin,' interrupted Mr. Torkingham, his mind returning to

this world again on concluding his search for a hymn.

Thereupon the racket of chair-legs on the floor signified that they were

settling into their seats,--a disturbance which Swithin took advantage of

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by going on tiptoe across the floor above, and putting sheets of paper

over knot-holes in the boarding at points where carpet was lacking, that

his lamp-light might not shine down. The absence of a ceiling beneath

rendered his position virtually that of one suspended in the same

apartment.

The parson announced the tune, and his voice burst forth with 'Onward,

Christian soldiers!' in notes of rigid cheerfulness.

In this start, however, he was joined only by the girls and boys, the men

furnishing but an accompaniment of ahas and hems. Mr. Torkingham

stopped, and Sammy Blore spoke,-'Beg your pardon, sir,--if you'll deal mild with us a moment. What with the wind and walking, my throat's as rough as a grater; and not knowing

you were going to hit up that minute, I hadn't hawked, and I don't think

Hezzy and Nat had, either,--had ye, souls?' 'I hadn't got thorough ready, that's true,' said Hezekiah.

'Quite right of you, then, to speak,' said Mr. Torkingham. 'Don't mind

explaining; we are here for practice. Now clear your throats, then, and

at it again.' There was a noise as of atmospheric hoes and scrapers, and the bass

contingent at last got under way with a time of its own: 'Honwerd, Christen sojers!' 'Ah, that's where we are so defective--the pronunciation,' interrupted

the parson. 'Now repeat after me: "On-ward, Christ-ian, sol-diers."' The choir repeated like an exaggerative echo: 'On-wed, Chris-ting, sol-jaws!' 'Better!' said the parson, in the strenuously sanguine tones of a man who got his living by discovering a bright side in things where it was not

very perceptible to other people. 'But it should not be given with quite

so extreme an accent; or we may be called affected by other parishes.

And, Nathaniel Chapman, there's a jauntiness in your manner of singing

which is not quite becoming. Why don't you sing more earnestly?' 'My conscience won't let me, sir. They say every man for himself: but, thank God, I'm not so mean as to lessen old fokes' chances by being earnest at my time o' life, and they so much nearer the need o't.' 'It's bad reasoning, Nat, I fear. Now, perhaps we had better sol-fa the tune. Eyes on your books, please. Sol-sol! fa-fa! mi--' 'I can't sing like that, not I!' said Sammy Blore, with condemnatory

astonishment. 'I can sing genuine music, like F and G; but not anything

so much out of the order of nater as that.' 'Perhaps you've brought the wrong book, sir?' chimed in Haymoss, kindly. 'I've knowed music early in life and late,--in short, ever since Luke

Sneap broke his new fiddle-bow in the wedding psalm, when Pa'son Wilton

brought home his bride (you can mind the time, Sammy?--when we sung "His

wife, like a fair fertile vine, her lovely fruit shall bring," when the

young woman turned as red as a rose, not knowing 'twas coming). I've

knowed music ever since then, I say, sir, and never heard the like o'

that. Every martel note had his name of A, B, C, at that time.' 'Yes, yes, men; but this is a more recent system!' 'Still, you can't alter a old-established note that's A or B by nater,'

rejoined Haymoss, with yet deeper conviction that Mr. Torkingham was

getting off his head. 'Now sound A, neighbour Sammy, and let's have a

slap at Christen sojers again, and show the Pa'son the true way!' Sammy produced a private tuning-fork, black and grimy, which, being about seventy years of age, and wrought before pianoforte builders had sent up the pitch to make their instruments brilliant, was nearly a note flatter

than the parson's. While an argument as to the true pitch was in

progress, there came a knocking without.




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