And he resumed his hobbling trudge, shaking his head dolefully.

“Don’t say that, Josey!” murmured one of the women with a little shudder; “You didn’t ought to talk about ill-luck.  Don’t ye know it’s onlucky to talk about ill-luck?”

“No, I don’t know nothin’ o’ the sort,” replied Josey, “Luck there is, and ill-luck,—­an’ ye can talk as ye like about one or t’other, it don’t make no difference.  An’ there’s some things as comes straight from the Lord, and there’s others what comes straight from the devil, an’ ye’ve got to take them as they comes.  ’Tain’t no use floppin’ on yer knees an’ cryin’ on either the Lord or the devil,—­ they’s outside of ye an’ jest amusin’ theirselves as they likes.  Mussy on me!  D’ye think I don’t know when the Lord ’ides ’is face behind the clouds playin’ peep-bo for a bit, and lets the devil ’ave it all ‘is own way?  An’ don’t I know ‘ow, when old Nick is jes’ in the thick o’ the fun ‘avin’ a fine time with the poor silly souls o’ men, the Lord suddenly comes out o’ the cloud and sez, sez He:  ’Now ‘nuff o’ this ‘ere; get thee behind me!’ An’ then—­an’ then—­,” here Josey paused and struck his staff violently into the earth,—­“an’ then there’s a noise as of a mighty wind rushin’, an’ the angels all falls to trumpetin’ an’ cries; ’Alleluia!  Lift up your ’eads ye everlasting gates that the King of Glory may come in’!”

The various village loafers sauntering beside their venerable prophet, listened to this outburst with respectful awe.

“He’s meanderin’,” said Bainton in a low tone to the portly proprietor of the ‘Mother Huff’; “It’s wonderful wot poltry there is in ’im, when ’e gives way to it!”

‘Poltry’ was the general term among the frequenters of the ’Mother Huff’ for ‘poetry.’

“Ay, ay!” replied Buggins, somewhat condescendingly, as one who bore in mind that he was addressing a creditor; “I don’t understan’ poltry myself, but Josey speaks fine when he has a mind to—­there’s no doubt of that.  Look ’ee ‘ere, now; there’s Ipsie Frost runnin’ to ’im!”

And they all turned their eyes on a flying bundle of curls, rosy cheeks, fat legs and clean pinafore, that came speeding towards old Josey, with another young feminine creature scampering after it crying: 

“Ipsie!  Hip-po-ly-ta!  Baby!  Come back to your dinner!”

But Hippolyta was a person evidently accustomed to have her own way, and she ran straight up to Josey Letherbarrow as though he were the one choice hero picked out of a world.

“Zozey!” she screamed, stretching out a pair of short, mottled arms; “My own bootiful Zozey-posey!  Tum and pick fowers!”

With an ecstatic shriek at nothing in particular, she caught the edge of the old man’s smock.

“My Zozey,” she said purringly, “’Oo vezy old, but I loves ’oo!”

A smile and then a laugh went the round of the group.  They were all accustomed to Ipsie’s enthusiasms.  Josey Letherbarrow paused a minute to allow his small admirer to take firm hold of his garments, and patted her little head with his brown wrinkled hand.