I became an outcast forthwith. At supper that night a gloomy silence was
broken by my cousin saying,

"'E 'it me for telling you, and I turned the other cheek, muvver."

"'E's got the evil one be'ind 'im now, a ridin' on 'is back," said my
aunt, to the grave discomfort of the eldest girl, who sat beside me.

After supper my uncle, in a few ill-chosen words, prayed me to repent
before I slept.

"Suppose you was took in your sleep, George," he said; "where'd you
be then? You jest think of that me boy." By this time I was thoroughly
miserable and frightened, and this suggestion unnerved me dreadfully but
I kept up an impenitent front. "To wake in 'ell," said Uncle Nicodemus,
in gentle tones. "You don't want to wake in 'ell, George, burnin' and
screamin' for ever, do you? You wouldn't like that?"

He tried very hard to get me to "jest 'ave a look at the bake'ouse fire"
before I retired. "It might move you," he said.

I was awake longest that night. My cousins slept, the sleep of faith
on either side of me. I decided I would whisper my prayers, and stopped
midway because I was ashamed, and perhaps also because I had an idea one
didn't square God like that.

"No," I said, with a sudden confidence, "damn me if you're coward
enough.... But you're not. No! You couldn't be!"

I woke my cousins up with emphatic digs, and told them as much,