But there's people set up their own ears for a standard, and expect the whole choir to follow 'em. There may be two opinions, I hope.«

»Ay, ay,« said Mr. Macey, who felt very well satisfied with this attack on youthful presumption; »you're right there, Tookey: there's allays two 'pinions; there's the 'pinion a man has of himsen, and there's the 'pinion other folks have on him. There'd be two 'pinions about a cracked bell, if the bell could hear itself.«

»Well, Mr. Macey,« said poor Tookey, serious amidst the general laughter, »I undertook to partially fill up the office of parish-clerk by Mr. Crackenthorp's desire, whenever your infirmities should make you unfitting; and it's one of the rights thereof to sing in the choir – else why have you done the same yourself?«

»Ah! but the old gentleman and you are two folks,« said Ben Winthrop. »The old gentleman's got a gift. Why, the Squire used to invite him to take a glass, only to hear him sing the ›Red Rovier;‹ didn't he, Mr. Macey? It's a nat'ral gift. There's my little lad Aaron, he's got a gift – he can sing a tune off straight, like a throstle. But as for you, Master Tookey, you'd better stick to your ›Amens:‹ your voice is well enough when you keep it up in your nose. It's your inside as isn't right made for music: it's no better nor a hollow stalk.«

This kind of unflinching frankness was the most piquant form of joke to the company at the Rainbow, and Ben Winthrop's insult was felt by everybody to have capped Mr. Macey's epigram.

»I see what it is plain enough,« said Mr. Tookey, unable to keep cool any longer. »There's a consperacy to turn me out o' the choir, as I shouldn't share the Christmas money – that's where it is. But I shall speak to Mr. Crackenthorp; I'll not be put upon by no man.«

»Nay, nay, Tookey,« said Ben Winthrop. »We'll pay you your share to keep out of it – that's what we'll do. There's things folks 'ud pay to be rid on, besides varmin.«

»Come, come,« said the landlord, who felt that paying people for their absence was a principle dangerous to society; »a joke's a joke. We're all good friends here, I hope. We must give and take. You're both right and you're both wrong, as I say. I agree wi' Mr. Macey here, as there's two opinions; and if mine was asked, I should say they're both right. Tookey's right and Winthrop's right, and they've only got to split the difference and make themselves even.«

The farrier was puffing his pipe rather fiercely, in some contempt at this trivial discussion. He had no ear for music himself, and never went to church, as being of the medical profession, and likely to be in requisition for delicate cows. But the butcher, having music in his soul, had listened with a divided desire for Tookey's defeat, and for the preservation of the peace.

»To be sure,« he said, following up the landlord's conciliatory view, »we're fond of our old clerk; it's nat'ral, and him used to be such a singer, and got a brother as is known for the first fiddler in this country-side. Eh, it's a pity but what Solomon lived in our village, and could give us a tune when we liked; eh, Mr. Macey? I'd keep him in liver and lights for nothing – that I would.«

»Ay, ay,« said Mr. Macey, in the height of complacency; »our family's been known for musicianers as far back as anybody can tell.