“Tut, tut, tut!” ejaculated the vicar.
“I don’t care; it’s a fact,” said Timson. “That fellow would light the fires in Smithfield again, as soon as look at you; he ought never to have been admitted into our church. Why, sir, he’s one of those scoundrels who would think it a meritorious act to rob our poor-boxes, and go and get absolution for it directly.”
“O Timson—Timson—Timson!” sighed the vicar; “thou art sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.”
“You’re another!” puffed Timson, angrily. “What do you mean?”
“Where is your charity, my friend? where is your charity?”
“Stolen out of the poor-box!” cried Timson, in a huff; “that’s where. And you mark my words if they don’t come true, and you’ll find it out one of these days in Smithfield.”
“Psh!” ejaculated the vicar, as near to angrily as he could get, and then there was silence till the effervescence had subsided.
“I don’t like it—I don’t like it,” said Timson, after a pause. “There! I hate it. You may look, sir; but I’ve had that Pellet with me this afternoon, and I can’t stand those sort of meetings. Why wasn’t it some one else, and not that poor sensitive struggling fellow? I’m sure it was the French Papist. Why didn’t we discharge old Purkis, or Mrs Ruggles, or the clerk? It was pitiful to see that poor fellow—pitiful! Why didn’t you suspect and find out the Frenchman? I should like to see him in custody.”
“Don’t talk nonsense, Timson,” said the vicar. “But it’s a bad job!” and the old gentleman sighed.
“Bad job! Ah! I should think it is a bad job,” said the churchwarden. “Now, what would it take to square the matter?”