of other people's business, and the trick of unexpected appearances. At
forty his fame was assured; at fifty he was an institution; at sixty an
oracle.

'Meshach's a mixture,' ran the local phrase; but in this mixture there
was a less tedious posturing and a more massive intellect than usually
go to the achievement of a provincial renown such as Meshach's. The
man's externals were deceptive, for he looked like a local curiosity who
might never have been out of Bursley. Meshach, however, travelled
sometimes in the British Isles, and thereby kept his ideas from
congealing. And those who had met him in trains and hotels knew that
porters, waiters, and drivers did not mistake his shrewdness for that of
a simpleton determined not to be robbed; that he wanted the right things
and had the art to get them; in short, that he was an expert in travel.
Like many old provincial bachelors, while frugal at home he could be
profuse abroad, exercising the luxurious freedom of the bachelor. In the
course of years it grew slowly upon his fellow pew-holders at the big
Sytch Chapel that he was worldly-minded and possibly contemptuous of
their codes; some, who made a specialty of smelling rats, accused him of
gaiety.

'You'd happen better get something extra for tea, sister,' said Meshach,
rousing himself.

'Why, brother?' demanded Hannah.

'Some sausage, happen,' Meshach proceeded.

'Is any one coming?' she asked.