I went to school at the usual hour. Most of the pupils had preceded me. Divided into groups of eight or ten, they were engaged in a most lively conversation. Bursts of convulsive laughter were heard from every corner. I could very well see that something uncommon had taken place in the village.
I approached several of these groups, and all received me with the question:
“Do you know that the priest was whipped last night as he was coming from the Misses Richards’?”
“That is a story invented for fun,” said I.
“You were not there to see him, were you? You therefore know nothing about it; for if anybody had whipped the priest he would not surely boast of it.”
“But we heard his screams,” answered many voices.
“What! was he then screaming out?” I asked.
“He shouted at the top of his voice, ‘Help, help! Murder!’”
“But you were surely mistaken about the voice,” said I. “It was not the priest who shouted, it was somebody else. I could never believe that anybody would whip a priest in such a crowded village.”
“But” said several, “we ran to his help and we recognized the priest’s voice. He is the only one who lisps in the village.”