“No—no—no—no!” said the vicar, testily; “you know whom I mean. He came here; but I would not see him—Pellet you know.”
“Why not?” said Timson, bluntly.
“Because I’m weak, my friend—weak, and might be tempted to give way, when I know it would not be right.”
“Well, ’tis hard—’tis hard,” said Timson; “I was ready to give way myself; and I don’t know now but what I believe the poor fellow is telling the truth.”
“What did he say, Timson?” said the vicar, “for I won’t see him. I would not believe in his guilt till it was forced upon me; but now I am fixed.”
“What did he say! Why, that it’s all a mistake.”
“I wish it were—I wish it were,” said the vicar, who seemed truly grieved; “but let him prove it—let him prove it.”
“Just so, I quite agree with you,” said Timson. “The very words I said to him. ‘Prove it, Pellet,’ I said—‘prove it, and there’s my hand;’ and I thought then that he was going to snatch it, so I put it out of his reach.”
“Such a musician!” said the vicar, “and to think of his proving a thief!”
“Just like ’em,” said Timson. “Those musicians are all thieves. They steal one another’s work, and call it inspiration. But don’t you think we might put it a little milder? ‘Thief’ is an ugly word; and—er—er—er—”