“Hear, hear!” murmured several voices, as Mr Fullerton glanced round the room, and drew himself up with the pride of a man who believed that he had said something original.
“I hope I’m too good a Christian to oppose the parson,” he continued, “and I wouldn’t if it had been Mr Paulby, but it’s time we stopped somewhere, gentlemen.”
“Hear, hear!” again; and several of the gentlemen addressed took their long pipes from their mouths to say it, and then, replacing them, continued to smoke.
“Ever since parson has been back he has been meddling and interfering. First he kills poor old Sammy Warmoth. Broke his heart, he did. Then he makes Joe Biggins saxon, a man most unfitted for the post, gentlemen. I say a man most unfitted for the post.”
“Hear, hear!”
“Chap as is always looking at you as if he wanted to measure you for a coffin,” said Smithson, the tailor.
“Natural enough,” said the Churchwarden, chuckling; “you always look at our clothes, Smithson, eh?”
“Ay, I do, Master Portlock, sir; but I don’t want you to die for it. I want you to live and grow stout, and want new suits, not a last one.”
“Stiff, hard suit o’ mourning, eh, Smithson, made o’ wood?”
“Yes, sir, well seasoned; ellum, eh?”