“I am,” the other responded.
“You really are? Well I want to ask you about some old clothes. I....”
The vicar held up his hand. “No, I have none to sell you,” he said smiling sadly. “I wear mine out.”
Jim laughed aloud. “First I’m thought to be selling them, and now you think I’m buying them,” he exclaimed. “We certainly are a nation of shop-keepers.”
The vicar was puzzled. “I don’t understand. What is it you want?”
“I have a lot of hats and old clothes I want to get rid of. I thought you might like them.”
The clergyman bowed stiffly. “It is very kind of you,” he said frigidly. “My stipend, I admit, is small, but I am not yet reduced to the necessity of wearing a stranger’s cast-off clothing.”
“Oh, I didn’t mean that,” Jim hastily explained. “And they’re not mine: they belonged to my late relatives. I am just coming to live at the manor, and I thought the poor of the parish would....”
The vicar interrupted him. “I beg your pardon. Are you ...?” He hesitated, incredulous.
“Yes, I’m the new Tundering-West,” Jim told him.