“Ho, ho! Doctor,” said old Mr. Powderell, a retired ironmonger of some standing⁠—his interjection being something between a laugh and a Parliamentary disapproval; “we must let you have your say. But what we have to consider is not anybody’s income⁠—it’s the souls of the poor sick people”⁠—here Mr. Powderell’s voice and face had a sincere pathos in them. “He is a real Gospel preacher, is Mr. Tyke. I should vote against my conscience if I voted against Mr. Tyke⁠—I should indeed.”