On a Saturday night early in May, the footsteps were heard again, and this time in the porch itself. While Mr. Raymond and Taffy listened the big latch went up with a creak, and a dark figure slipped into the church.
“Who is there?” challenged Mr. Raymond from the chancel where he stood peering out of the small circle of light.
“A friend. Pass, friend, and all’s well!” answered a squeaky voice. “Bless you, I’ve sarved in the militia before now.”
It was Jacky Pascoe, with his coat-collar turned up high about his ears.
“What do you want?” Mr. Raymond demanded sharply.
“A job.”
“We can pay for no work here.”
“Wait till thee’rt asked, Parson, dear. I’ve been spying in upon ’ee these nights past. Pretty carpenters you be! T’other night, as I was a-peeping, the Lord said to me, ‘Arise, go, and for goodness’ sake show them chaps how to do it fitty.’ ‘Dear Lord,’ I said, ‘Thou knowest I be a Bryanite.’ The Lord said to me, ‘None of your back answers! Go and do as I tell ’ee.’ So here I be.”
Mr. Raymond hesitated. “Squire Moyle is your friend, I hear, and the friend of your chapel. What will he say if he discovers that you are helping us?”
Jacky scratched his head. “I reckon the Lord must have thought o’ that, too. Suppose you put me to work in the vestry? There’s only one window looks in on the vestry: you can block that up with a curtain, and there I’ll be like a weevil in a biscuit.”