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Updated: May 25, 2025
On such occasions Will Brinsmead seldom failed to bring forth his well-worn Bible, or his beloved Bunyan's "Pilgrim's Progress," from which, lying down with his elbow on the grass, he would read half aloud to himself, raising his voice if he saw any one approaching near enough to listen. Jack was frequently among Brinsmead's auditors.
Jack looked about for his friend, but old Brinsmead's low-crowned hat was completely concealed by the higher beavers of more pretentious and taller persons. He pushed on as well as he could among the crowd, hoping to overtake Brinsmead, but probably passed him.
Jack, not quite entering into Brinsmead's opinions with regard to the wrongfulness of watching the tricks of the mummers and mountebanks and other similar performers, had stopped before the booth of a conjurer, who was by his amusing tricks producing a succession of broad grins on the countenances of a crowd of rustics standing round him, and occasional loud shouts of laughter.
He could not help remarking the contrast between the expression of honest Brinsmead's countenance, as he jogged along on his steady old grey horse, and that of Master Pearson: the one free and open, with a kind smile generally playing over it, and the other strongly marked and coarse, with a cunning look in the eyes, and a constant tendency to a sneer on the lips.
Jack had, however, remarked a peculiar twinkle in the student's eye when talking to the old man, which made him suspect his sincerity. He appeared, however, to be very well informed on many subjects, and still further won Master Brinsmead's heart by showing that he possessed some knowledge of the art of breeding cattle, and of healing their diseases, but little understood in those days.
Brinsmead's droves were often joined by others belonging to different masters. They usually travelled as far as possible in the earliest morning hours, to secure the freedom of the roads.
He "used" the Haycock, in Edgware Road; and she feared that he had fallen among a hard-drinking set. He was a pianoforte-maker, and had been employed at Brinsmead's for eighteen years. Since her mother died, six years ago, however, he had never been the same. "It was then that he took to drink?" I hazarded. "Yes," she responded. "He was devoted to her. They never had a wry word."
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