“If you make use of such language, Levi Timson, I must leave your office,” said the vicar, severely.
“What language?—what language?” exclaimed the churchwarden.
“Why, such as yours, sir,” retorted the vicar; “introducing the father of evil every moment.”
“Not I!—not I!” exclaimed Timson. “Introduce him! Not I. Who brought him into the room? Who began it? Who said it first?”
“But only in a modified form,” said the vicar, humbly; “I qualified it strongly with an ‘if.’ But I was wrong, extremely wrong, Timson; and there! I beg your pardon, Timson. I was put out and annoyed, and spoke hastily,” and he held out his hand.
“No, sir; no, sir; you don’t beg mine,” said Timson, taking the vicar’s hand. “I beg yours, sir. I know I spoke hastily, for I was angry and put out, for teas are gone up, confound ’em!”
“But I was in the wrong, Timson,” said the vicar. “As a clergyman, I ought to have governed myself, and known better than to be hasty.”
“I won’t give up in my own premises, sir,” exclaimed Timson. “Now, don’t smile, sir; they’re mine, bought and paid for, and there are the writings in that safe. I was in the wrong; but teas are up horribly this morning, and I’d been reckoning on their going down.”
Peace was ratified at once, for the two old men shook hands very solemnly for quite a minute.
“I’d give something, though, to find out about that money,” said the vicar, “for, you see, it’s going again.”