There was a general laugh at this lugubrious joking, and Fullerton tapped impatiently with his pipe-bowl upon the table.
“I say, gentlemen, a most unsuitable man,” he continued.
“Who would you have had then?” said Churchwarden Portlock.
“Why Thomas Morrison, the wheelwright,” said Fullerton, “if you must have a churchman.”
“Yes, a good man,” was murmured in assent.
“Then he must be pulling the church all to pieces, and quarrelling with the curate, and refusing to bury his dead. We wouldn’t have refused to bury our dead at chapel, gentlemen.”
“Not you,” chuckled Portlock. “You’d like to bury the lot of us, parson and all.”
“Gentlemen, this is begging the question,” said Fullerton, with plump dignity, and he settled his neck in his white cravat. “What I say is, that I have no enmity against the parson, nayther have you.”
“Nay, nay,” said Warton, the saddler, who had the rectory pair horse harness on his mind, the new double set, that he saw, by the name on the packing-case, came from Peak’s; “we only pity him. He has plenty of trouble wi’ those two boys of his. I hear the Bad Shilling’s come back now.”
“Ay, he’s back,” said Smithson. “I’ve got a pair of his trousers to mend. One never gets anything to make. Up at thy place last night, wasn’t he, Master Portlock?”