"Ah, to be sure," said I; "the packet-men!"
"Never you worry, young sir," she answered tartly, "so long as they don't mind eating after their betters. And as for your man Priske, I saw him twenty minutes ago escape towards Church Street with the Methodists."
"Hang it!" put in Nat Fiennes, "if I hadn't clean forgotten the
Methodists!"
"We left them scurvily," said I; "every Jack and Jill of them but our friend here." I nodded toward the little man in black. "And he not only saved himself, but was half the battle."
The little man seemed to come out of himself with a start, and gazed from one to another of us perplexedly.
"Excuse me, gentlemen." He drew himself up with dignity.
"Do my ears deceive me, or are you mistaking me for a Methodist?"
"Indeed, and are you not, sir?" asked my father. "Why, good God, gentlemen!—if you'll excuse me—but I'm the parish clerk of Axminster!"
My father recovered himself with a bow. "In Devon?" he asked gravely, after a pause in which our silence paid tribute to the announcement.
"In Devon, sir; a county remarkable for its attachment to the principles of the Church of England. And that I should have lived to be mistaken for a Methodist!"
"But, surely, John Wesley himself is a Clerk in Holy Orders? and, I have heard, a great stickler for the Church's authority."