“I say again, gentlemen,” cried Fullerton, “will you all come and back me up?”
Every man present seemed to consider that it was the duty of the others to speak out and tackle Fullerton—so they mentally put it—and each looked at the other in turn without avail, till the regards of all present seemed to be concentrated upon Tomlinson, the ironmonger, who after a little hesitation said—
“I don’t think it was wise to upset Smithson. It’s like sending a man over to the enemy.”
“I hope he hasn’t got a long bill against you for clothes, Fullerton,” said Warton, the saddler, with a chuckle. “You’ll have it in before it comes due.”
“If I owed my tailor a bill I dare say I could pay it, Mr Warton,” said Fullerton, haughtily; “and I should be glad to know, gentlemen, whether you mean to discuss the question of the appointment of a new master, because if you don’t I shall throw the whole matter up.”
“Oh, no, no, no,” came in a murmur; “don’t do that, Fullerton,” and an appealing look was directed at Tomlinson, who drew a long breath, refreshed himself, and went on.
“You see I don’t think it would be wise to go and upset Mr Mallow if we could help it,” he said; “he’s a very good customer of mine, and very neighbourly. I don’t think he’s a bad sort of man.”
“Not a bad sort of man!” cried Fullerton, indignantly; “why, it’s a burning shame for him to have charge of this parish at all. What’s a parson for?”
“Well,” said Tomlinson, mildly, “I suppose to have the care of the parish.”
“Yes, and to rule and manage it,” said Warton.