“Well, and so I’ll be bound to say that it was,” said Timson. “I was sure of it last week, only you would not have it that I was right.”
“Of course not,” said the vicar, “when you declared only two days before that it was the organ-boy, whom you had caught spending money. How much did he spend, by the by?”
“Well, only a halfpenny at a potato-can, certainly,” said Timson; “but he must have been flush of money.”
“Pish!” ejaculated the vicar, contemptuously,—“nonsense!”
“Ah! you may say ‘Pish,’” exclaimed Timson, angrily; “but it isn’t nonsense. The money goes, don’t it? and they’re all in it, every man jack of ’em. It’s a regular conspiracy.”
“I never in all my experience met with a less consistent man than you are, Timson,” said the vicar. “I believe you would accuse me as soon as look at me, and then give some one else into custody for the theft.”
“No, I shouldn’t,” grumbled Mr Timson. “We should have found it all out by this time, only you will be so obstinate. I’d soon find it out if I had my way.”
“I do wish you would have a little more charity in you, Timson,” continued the vicar, taking up and dealing the cards. “I honestly believe that if it had not been for me, you would have made two or three homes wretched by accusing people of the theft.”
“No business to steal poor-box money, then,” said Mr Timson, through his nose, for his hands being occupied with his cards, his lips were tightly closed over the waxy end of his pipe. “It was Pellet, I’m sure.”
“No more Pellet than it was Purkis,” said the vicar. “I never knew a more quiet, respectable man.”