Well, as Will Atkins and his wife were gone, our business there was over; so we went back our own way; and when we came back we found them waiting to be called in. Observing this, I asked my clergyman if we should discover to him that we had seen him under the bush, or no; and it was his opinion we should not; but that we should talk to him first, and hear what he would say to us: so we called him in alone, nobody being in the place but ourselves; and I began with him thus:
“Will Atkins,” said I, “pr’ythee what education had you? What was your father?”
W.A. A better man than ever I shall be. Sir, my father was a clergyman.
R.C. What education did he give you?
W.A. He would have taught me well, Sir; but I despised all education, instruction, or correction, like a beast as I was.
R.C. It is true, Solomon says, “He that despiseth reproof is brutish.”
W.A. Ay, Sir, I was brutish indeed; I murdered my father; for God’s sake, Sir, talk no more about that, Sir; I murdered my poor father.
Priest. Ha! a murderer?
[Here the priest started (for I interpreted every word as he spoke it), and looked pale: it seems he believed that Will had really killed his own father.]
R.C. No, no, Sir, I do not understand him so. Will Atkins, explain yourself: you did not kill your father, did you, with your own hands?