"Not a main sight," he said without exhibiting the faintest trace of interest. "Moast of our folks is too old to marry, and the young 'uns goes to the big church at Belton—away over there."
"When was the last?" asked Mr. Ambrose.
The clerk took up his hat slowly and scratched his head.
"I do scarce remember, sir," he said; "my memory ain't what it were. I'm getting on in years, you see—nearly eighty, sir; me and the parson runs a closish race," and he chuckled. "When was the last? Lemme see! Well, I could tell 'ee by the book, but the parson keeps that. I dare say he could put his hand upon it."
Mr. Ambrose laughed softly.
"You seem half asleep here at Sefton," he said pleasantly.
The old clerk grunted.
"I think we be sometimes, sir," he said. "But, you see, it's a miserable place now the coach has given up running through. Them railways and steam indians have a'most ruined the country."
"How long ago is it since the last coach ran?" asked Mr. Ambrose.