"Well, well!" exclaimed Peake, genuinely amazed at this proof of religious vitality. "Who are the subscribers?"
"I'm one," said Enoch Lovatt, quietly, but with unconcealed pride.
"And I'm another," said Mrs Lovatt. "Bless you, I should have been ashamed of myself if I hadn't responded to such an appeal. You may say what you like about Titus Blackhurst—I know there's a good many that don't like him—but he's a real good sort. I'm sure he's the best Sunday School superintendent we ever had. Then there's Mr Clayton-Vernon, and Alderman Sutton, and young Henry Mynors and—"
"And Eardley Brothers—they're giving a hundred apiece," put in Lovatt, glancing at Randolph Sneyd.
"I wish they'd pay their debts first," said Peake, with sudden savageness.
"They're all right, I suppose?" said Sneyd, interested, and leaning over towards Peake.
"Oh, they're all right," Peake said testily. "At least, I hope so," and he gave a short, grim laugh. "But they're uncommon slow payers. I sent 'em in an account for coal only last week—three hundred and fifty pound. Well, auntie, who's the ninth subscriber?"
"Ah, that's the point," said Enoch Lovatt. "The ninth isn't forthcoming."
Mrs Lovatt looked straight at her sister's husband. "We want you to be the ninth," she said.
"Me!" He laughed heartily, perceiving a broad humour in the suggestion.