“You will see me looking over a big book. When I draw my hand across my forehead, thus, throw a stone at one of the end windows, and make off as fast as your legs will carry you; but mind, Cooney, don’t attempt to throw the stone till I have given the sign.”
“Oh, no, in course not. I aint likely to do that. And what else?”
“You are pretty sure to get clean off. Make for the station, and remain in the waiting-room till I come. Now, you understand?”
“I hopes as how I do.”
“Now make off, and I will go and find the clerk.”
Cooney at once betook himself to the lane, and Rawton returned to the village.
Upon arriving at the clerk’s house, he found that worthy at dinner—so he took a stroll till the meal was over, and then called again.
He explained his business, saying he wished to get a copy of the register of two persons who were married at the church some twenty or two-and-twenty years back.
The clerk was a very old man, with tottering limbs and defective sight; he had held his present office for over fifty years. He carried with him a huge bunch of keys, and walked by the side of the gipsy conversing in a friendly manner till they reached the church.
“You are not quite certain as to the year, you say,” he observed, as he opened the door of the sacred edifice.