Stubbs looked relieved when he saw Lancaster, and drew him down to the table, pointedly turning his back upon his female relative, but she soon wore him into silence. She was upset, it appeared, about the forthcoming oratorio in Bluecaster. The church was small, and it seemed that there would be a squash for the Choral Society. Forms would have to be added to the choir-stalls. The Vicar had written Miss Lancaster, as Secretary of the Society, to know whether Elijah and Co. might be accommodated on chairs on the chancel steps, and, if so, whether the chairs should be plain or upholstered. Miss Lancaster was of opinion that the chairs in question ought to be the Vicar’s best saddle-bags, and had answered to that effect—a suggestion indignantly vetoed by the Vicar’s wife. The Vicar had replied that, according to his humble judgment, large and bulgy saddle-bags were in keeping neither with the appointments of a church nor with the original entourage of Elijah and his troupe. Helwise had responded with quotations: “The Lord loveth a cheerful giver,” and “Whatever, Lord, we lend to Thee, repaid a thousandfold will be,” envisaging the terrible prospect of countless saddle-bags prancing cumbrously up the Vicarage drive. This Biblical trespassing had been taken in bad part by the other side, and Elijah bade fair to fall between two stools. Lanty having refused to show any interest whatever in the matter, Helwise had flown to Harriet, who, it seemed, was at the Workhouse. Stubbs audibly wished them both at Hong-Kong, and Elijah along with them.
Hamer came soothingly to the rescue. He happened to have some old chairs that were exactly the thing. In fact, he rather believed that they had been church-wood, to begin with. He would be delighted to lend them, and also to send them, if they would be of service. He even borrowed notepaper from the disgusted Stubbs, and sat down to write to the Vicar at Helwise’s dictation. Lanty, in the window, stroking White-Paws on Dandy’s lap, growled a remonstrance, which she checked. “Oh, please let him!” she begged under her breath; and, remembering that Wiggie would occupy one of the chairs, he said no more. Stubbs rattled off a string of all the most swear-sounding rotifera he could think of.
To the tune of a spanking trot Harriet dashed into the yard, and strode in, a fine colour in her sallow cheeks, and every fighting bristle raised for war. Hospitality dragged from her a brief recognition of the later arrivals as they rose to greet her, but she paid it no further dues. Stubbs brightened. Evidently there had been a row.
“Worm!” said Harriet, slapping down her hard gauntlets under Helwise’s nose. “Caterpillar! Bloodless, backboneless caterpillar! To dare to talk to me about milk—ME! Knewstubb of Wild Duck! Centipede—white-livered, backstair crawler—Earwig! CROCODILE!”
The Shaws paled—this was a new and dreadful Harriet—but Stubbs merely hallooed: “Sick ’em, lass! Good dog—hie on to him!” snapping his fingers with keen enjoyment, and even Helwise seemed unconcerned. As for Lanty, he laughed with evident understanding.
“Thorne, I suppose, is it? I’ve seen him slinking into the Workhouse once or twice lately as I passed. Afraid he thinks no great shakes of me as his fellow-Guardian. It isn’t often I get time to look in. I fancy he gives them a pretty thin time there, poking about and finding fault.”
“Yes. Ollivant Thorne. ‘Creeping Jesus’ they call him in the village, with his slimy voice and his shifty eyes! What are you all on your hind legs for, by the way? I’ve a lot to say, so you may as well ease up to it. That’s better! It was like this: Lambert sent me a private note to say that Thorne didn’t think the milk up to standard, so I went round myself to see about it, and there if you please was the Creeping Jesus, waiting ready to sniff at the milkcan as soon as it stopped at the door. Of course I asked him where the devil he had learned anything about milk with his death’s head always stuck in a ledger, and he said he was there to see that the poor were not being fleeced by a flummoxing farmer. I replied that the milk was the best in the county, as anybody but a long-eared sarsaparilla raised on barley-water and lemon wouldn’t need telling, and he said that language wasn’t allowed in the Sacred Precincts of the Pure Pauper, and that he should parley with the Board, and have the contract taken from me. I told him he could sue me for jumping it on the spot, and tried to come away and the milk with me, but Lambert nearly wept, so of course I turned soft and let him have it. He said awful things about Thorne when the Creeping Jesus had bunked, but of course that’s unofficial, so you must keep it dark. The creature’s had his knife into me ever since I chucked him out for trying some stuff on Stubbs that he called a perfect substitute for whisky. Stubbs was ill for days afterwards—weren’t you, Stubbs?—and I had to stick upstairs nursing him and let the farm slide.”
“Thorne?” Hamer pondered. “I know the man. Excise—insurance—law—what is he? Something parchmenty, anyhow. Had two hours of him one day, and never guessed what he was after until the last five minutes, when he tried to get some work out of me. Wouldn’t trust him as far as I could throw him. County odd-jobber, isn’t he, as well?”
Lanty nodded.
“Rural District Council. Attends like his prayers. I share the honour with him. We’ve been returned unopposed at least twice, and there’s nobody coming up against us this time either that I know of. Election in March. Afraid I don’t lay myself out much to oblige. The estate carries me, and Thorne has a select band of slummites that he beats up for the occasion.”