Long before I knew old Biggs, I had heard of him from Bettesworth, as being a very mirror of idleness. Aided by knowledge of some of his relatives, I found this not hard to believe of Biggs. Besides, Bettesworth's expressions were forcible. He spoke not of mirrors, but said plainly, “They be the laziest lot as ever Gawd put a gut into.”

This particular specimen of the Biggs family especially excites Bettesworth's wrath. Others of them will at least make a pretence of working, but this old man none at all. “It's before my time,” growls Bettesworth, “however he gits a livin' at all.… He won't work. If ever he got at a job, 'bout eight or nine o'clock he'd want to go an' sit down.… They be all alike, all them Biggses. The doctor never 'ad to bleed none o' they for a strain. They won't work.… If I ad my way, they shou'n't ha' no vittles.”

Soon after Christmas, Biggs and his wife moved into a little cottage of which the garden adjoins-mine. So far as I am aware, although it is now March, the old man has not yet done a stroke of work. His complaint of extreme weakness, following upon influenza in the autumn, is supported by the moaning monotony of his voice, and by his tottering movements. Bettesworth remains sceptical. He says that yesterday he asked old Mrs. Biggs, “En't your old man gwine to do no more work, then?” and that she answered, reproachfully, “'E can't work, Fred.”