It was Sunday; and there was nobody about except the few hurrying to early service in the parish-church.
Amongst these he noted Alf turning into the porch.
At Billing's Corner he met the Archdeacon, who passed him with disapproving eye, and the sour remark,
"You're off early, Caspar."
"Yes, sir," brightly. "I'm away over the hill."
"Ah," smirked the Archdeacon, "there are better ways of passing the Sabbath, I believe."
"Yes, sir," answered Ernie. "You'll find Alf awaitin you inside. He's doin it for us both."
The Archdeacon had never quite made up his mind whether Ernie was ingenuous or impertinent or both. But then he had never made up his mind about Ernie's father, though he had disliked his impalpable neighbour and feared him secretly for thirty years.
Ernie now turned into Rectory Walk, and paused outside No. 60.
The habits of the inmates he knew to a minute, and had timed himself accordingly.