The rector, a gentleman, appearing unwillingly to prosecute, pleaded for the prisoners. A trivial offence, he urged—a stormy night on which he would gladly have given them shelter had they asked for it, and he turned to the dock with: "Why did you not come and ask for it, my friend?"
"Why, there'd have been no fun in doing that!" said Mr. Wriford.
"Fun!" exclaimed the rector. "No, no fun perhaps. But a hearty welcome I—"
"Oh, keep your hearty welcomes to yourself!" cried Mr. Wriford.
And then the chairman: "You're a confirmed rascal, sir. A confirmed and stubborn rascal. When our good vicar—"
"Well, you're a self-important, over-fed, and very gross-looking pomposity," returned Mr. Wriford.
"Seven days," said the chairman, very swollen. "Take them away, constable."
"Curse me," said Mr. Puddlebox when, accommodated for the night in adjoining cells, they conversed over the partition that divided them. "Curse me, you're no better than a fool, loony, and I challenge any man to be a bigger. Here we are at these vile tasks for a week and would have got away scot free and a shilling from the parson but for your fool's tongue."
"Well, I had to say something to stir them up," explained Mr. Wriford. "I must be doing something all the time, or I get—
"Well, there's better things to do than this cursed foolishness," grumbled Mr. Puddlebox.