Bill Rawton was married at a primitive village in Hampshire, called Wratton, and to this place he forthwith proceeded in company with Cooney.
“It’s a delicate little bit of business we are going on,” said Rawton; “and will require a good deal of artfulness to work properly, but it must be done, that’s certain. It is not a profitable job I admit, but we must take the fat with the lean.”
“All right, old man,” said Cooney. “I don’t much care what it is, as long as it’s worked to rights. Let me know what I’ve got to do, and I’ll be on to it like a shot.”
Upon arriving at the village in question Mr. Rawton was more communicative to his companion.
“Now, old sinner, I am going to the church.”
Cooney opened his eyes to the fullest extent.
“To the church, eh! Oh, I tumble; the plate I spose?”
“No such thing. I want to search for a register.”
Cooney nodded.
“And when I give you a signal, all I want is for you to throw a stone at one of the windows of the church, and then take to your heels.”