"In that hundred Jenkins, a tinker, with one dog--_unis canis_--holds, by
the Grace of God and a habit he has of working hard, _unam hidam_--a large
potato patch. Charmin' fellow, Jenkins. Friend of ours. Now, who the dooce
did Jenkins keep? ... In the hundred of Callton is one charcoal-burner
_irreligiosissimus homo_--a bit of a rip--but a thorough sportsman. _Ibi
est ecclesia. Non multum_. Not much of a church, _quia_ because,
_episcopus_ the Vicar irritated the Nonconformists _tunc et post et modo_
--then and afterwards and now--until they built a cut-stone Congregational
chapel with red brick facings that did not return itself--_defendebat se_
--at four thousand pounds."
"Charcoal-burners, vicars, schismatics, and red brick facings," groaned
the Wheel. "But this is sheer blasphemy. What waters have they let in upon
me?"
"Floods from the gutters. Faugh, this light is positively sickening!" said
the Cat, rearranging her fur.
"We come down from the clouds or up from the springs, exactly like all
other waters everywhere. Is that what's surprising you?" sang the Waters.
"Of course not. I know my work if you don't. What I complain of is your
lack of reverence and repose. You've no instinct of deference towards your
betters--your heartless parody of the Sacred volume (the Wheel meant
Domesday Book)--proves it."
"Our betters?" said the Waters most solemnly. "What is there in all this
dammed race that hasn't come down from the clouds, or----"
"Spare me that talk, please," the Wheel persisted.
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