It was a prayer-meeting for boys only, and the place was crammed with them, of all ages up to eighteen.
It was a carpenter's workshop.

Tools and timber had been as far as possible pushed to the side, and at the end a rough platform of loose planks had been laid across some logs so as to raise the preacher a little.
Soon there was a stir, and Mr.Dyson appeared.

He was tall and loosely built, with the stoop from the neck and the sallow skin which the position of the cotton-spinner at work and the close fluffy atmosphere in which he lives tend to develop.

Up to six months ago, he had been a mill-hand and a Wesleyan class-leader.
Now, in consequence partly of some inward crisis, partly of revolt against an 'unspiritual' superintendent, he had thrown up mill and Methodism together, and come to live on the doles of the Christian Brethren at Clough End.

He had been preaching on the moors already during the day, and was tired out; but the pallor of the harsh face only made the bright, commanding eye more noticeable.