"Thank you for that kind word, schoolmaster," said Spry. "And he was prosperous. 'Tis all a fable, but——"
At this moment William Churchward entered. He was a huge, burly, thick-necked young man with a voice that surprised the ear. One expected a solemn bass and heard a ridiculous treble. William had bulbous, pale grey eyes like his father's, flabby chops and a small mouth.
"There's your beer," he said. "Good Lord! you old blades be going it seemingly."
"Would you play dragon, 'Infant,' and let St. Garge pretend to stick his spear into 'e?" asked Mr. Huggins.
"Us be going to have a dragon in the procession—with St. George a slaying of him, William," explained Mr. Prout.
"The 'Infant' will never let himself be slain, I'm afraid?" murmured Nathaniel Spry in a questioning voice.
"You'll have to wear an outrageous tail, William, an' cover your gert carcase in glittering scales," declared Jacob Taverner. "But I don't think you ought to be allowed to roar, for you haven't got a dragon's voice—to say it kindly."
"'Twill come down to play-acting in a minute," grumbled Mr. Norseman, "and I don't hold with that, I warn the committee. If there's to be any May games of that sort, I'll lay it afore the vicar."
William helped himself to a churchwarden from the box, and prepared to depart.
"You'm a rare old rally," he said; "and all drunk a'ready, I should think."