Torrisany we called him?'

'I can't say I ever did. Was he a Frenchy like?'

'No, a hectoring, hard-mouthed, long-sworded Italian builder, as vain as
a peacock and as strong as a bull, but, mark you, a master workman. More
than that--he could get his best work out of the worst men.'

'Which it's a gift. I had a foreman-bricklayer like him once,' said Mr.
Springett. 'He used to prod 'em in the back like with a pointing-trowel,
and they did wonders.'

'I've seen our Torrisany lay a 'prentice down with one buffet and raise
him with another--to make a mason of him. I worked under him at building
a chapel in London--a chapel and a tomb for the king.'

'I never knew kings went to chapel much,' said Mr. Springett. 'But I
always hold with a man, don't care who he be, seein' about his own grave
before he dies. Tidn't the sort of thing to leave to your family after
the will's read. I reckon 'twas a fine vault.'

'None finer in England. This Torrigiano had the contract for it, as
you'd say. He picked master craftsmen from all parts--England, France,
Italy, the Low Countries--no odds to him so long as they knew their
work, and he drove them like--like pigs at Brightling Fair. He called us
English all pigs. We suffered it because he was a master in his craft.
If he misliked any work that a man had done, with his own great hands
he'd rive it out, and tear it down before us all. "Ah, you pig--you
English pig!" he'd scream in the dumb wretch's face. "You answer me? You
look at me? You think at me? Come out with me into the cloisters. I will
teach you carving myself. I will gild you all over!" But when his
passion had blown out, he'd slip his arm round the man's neck, and
impart knowledge worth gold. 'Twould have done your heart good, Mus'
Springett, to see the two hundred of us--masons, jewellers, carvers,
gilders, iron workers and the rest--all toiling like cock-angels, and
this mad Italian hornet fleeing from one to next up and down the chapel.
'Done your heart good, it would!'

'I believe you,' said Mr. Springett. 'In Eighteen hundred Fifty-four, I
mind, the railway was bein' made into Hastin's. There was two thousand
navvies on it--all young--all strong--an' I was one of 'em. Oh, dearie
me! Excuse me, sir, but was your enemy workin' with you?'

'Benedetto? Be sure he was. He followed me like a lover. He painted
pictures on the chapel ceiling--slung from a chair. Torrigiano made us
promise not to fight till the work should b