“Nor a better organist, if he wouldn’t be so long-winded,” said Mr Timson, coolly.
“Nor a better organist,” acquiesced the vicar. “Fifteen—six, and six are a dozen,” he continued, throwing down his cards.
“Three, and one for his nob,” said Mr Timson, following the example of his host; “and that’s what I should give him, Mr Gray, if I knew who it was.”
“Humph!” ejaculated the vicar, thoughtfully.
But in spite of his thoughtfulness he came no nearer to his point, and in the course of time the Rev. John Gray was distant, and then, in manner, apologetic, to all the church officials. He even went so far as to send the little asthmatical old razor-faced clerk a present, so as to set his own mind at rest for having judged him hastily. He had fresh locks placed upon the boxes—locks with cunningly-devised keys, which the maker assured him it was impossible to imitate; but a fortnight had not elapsed before the boxes were plundered again—the culprit apparently growing bolder with success.
The vicar grew more and more anxious. He was in dread now that the communion-plate might be taken, and, lest a raid should be made upon it, he watched it himself to and from the churchwarden’s house.
At times, too, Mr Gray would feel almost disposed to take his friend’s advice, and call in the aid of the police; but even then he did not feel certain of success, and he shrank from such stringent measures on account of the publicity they would entail; besides, he wished to discover the culprit himself, and take him to task, for he considered that his own conscience would be sufficient punishment so soon as he was detected.
In Duplex Street, the vicar’s words were well taken into consideration, and the whole affair was canvassed with animation, Tim Ruggles the while listening attentively, and giving his opinion when asked, otherwise perfectly silent, until, to use his own words, “he was set going.”
“I like clergymen sometimes,” said Tim, “and sometimes I don’t; but this vicar of ours seems a man worth knowing. Mrs Ruggles says, sir, it’s a pleasure to have anything to do for him, and she’s a great judge of character, sir. But there are some parsons I never could like, for they’re as easy and plausible as country solicitors, and that’s saying a great deal. But really it does seem a wonder that this little matter is not found out I’ll talk to Mrs Ruggles about it again to-night—wonderful woman—I like to hear her opinion; full of point and keenness. Authority for saying so,” muttered Tim, beneath his breath, for he had been taking himself to task for his frequent usage of this his favourite expression.
Conversation was here stayed by a terrible vocal explosion up-stairs, accompanied by cries for mother, the cause being that a juvenile member of the Pellet family had choked himself with an angular fragment of pudding, given to him by Mrs Jared to keep him out of mischief—a cold heavy pudding of a most economical texture, frequently made in Jared’s establishment, and called by him “extinguisher” from its wondrous power of putting out appetite to the last faint spark.