“I don’t know—I don’t know,” said the vicar, despondingly; “but we shall find him out to a certainty some day.”
“Him!” exclaimed the churchwarden,—“him, sir?”
“Well, yes; him, or her, or it. I would not care if I could get just an inkling of who it could be. But I’m determined upon one thing, Timson, and that is, if there is much more of it, I will do away with the poor-boxes altogether, and preach an extra charity-sermon every quarter;” and the vicar tucked his umbrella beneath his arm, as if ready to go.
“But I say, sir,” exclaimed Mr Timson, “I would not bear it in mind quite so much.”
“What do you mean, Timson?” said the vicar.
“Texts, sir, texts!” said Mr Timson, drily.
“Well, Timson, I won’t—I won’t, really; though, between ourselves—as friends—as old friends you know—I don’t mind telling you, that I had been making up the heads of a discourse for next Sunday upon the parable of the lost piece of money. But I’ll take your advice, and try something else.”
“Do!” said his friend, “and let the matter rest. Don’t show that you notice it, sir; be quite quiet, and we shall put them off their guard; I’ve my suspicions yet!”
“No, you have not, Timson,” said the vicar, laughing, “not you. You’re not a suspicious man, and never were.”
“Nor you neither,” said the tea-dealer, shaking hands. “Good morning.”