he had not long been a member. Since that day he had known neither sorrow nor trouble, and this attempt to fill him with new hopes was, indeed, a cruelty.
"A hundred a year's a nice thing, for sartain, neighbour Spriggs," said he: "I once had nigh to that myself, but it didn't do me no good." And he gave a low sigh, as he thought of the children of his own loins who had robbed him.
"And shall have again, Joe," said Handy; "and will have some one to keep it right and tight for you this time."
Crumple sighed again—he had learned the impotency of worldly wealth, and would have been satisfied, if left untempted, to have remained happy with one and sixpence a day.
"Come, Skulpit," repeated Handy, getting impatient, "you're not going to go along with old Bunce in helping that parson to rob us all. Take the pen, man, and right yourself. Well," he added, seeing that Skulpit still doubted, "to see a man as is afraid to stand by hisself, is, to my thinking, the meanest thing as is."
"Sink them all for parsons, says I," growled Moody; "hungry beggars, as never thinks their bellies full till they have robbed all and everything."
"Who's to harm you, man?" argued Spriggs: "let them look never so black at you, they can't get you put out when you're once in—no, not old Catgut, with Calves to help him!" I am sorry to say the archdeacon himself was designated by this scurrilous allusion to his nether person.
"A hundred a year to win, and nothing to lose," continued Handy, "my eyes!—Well, how a man's to doubt about sich a bit of cheese as that passes me—but some men is timorous—some men is born with no pluck in them—some men is cowed at the very first sight of a gen'leman's coat and waistcoat."
