“Yes,” cried Fullerton, “of course; and here’s a man who can’t manage his own household, which is the wastefullest in the place.”
“Might keep your family on what they waste, eh, Fullerton?” said Warton, the saddler, with a chuckle, for he was a great friend of Smithson; and it was a fact often commented upon by neighbours, that Fullerton’s domestic economy was of the most parsimonious character.
“I’m not the man to eat the parson’s leavings,” said Fullerton, angrily, “nor yet the man to go cringing and touching my hat to him in hopes of getting a harness-mending order.”
Mr Warton refilled his pipe.
“I say,” continued Fullerton, “that a man who can’t rule his own sons can’t properly rule a parish.”
“Nay, nay, nay,” cried Tomlinson; “don’t be too hard upon him, man. He’s a very good sort of fellow is Mallow, and I should be very sorry to go against him.”
“But you will go against him,” said Fullerton, triumphantly; and he looked very hard in the ironmonger’s face.
Mr Tomlinson’s pipe needed seeing to just then, and he let his eyes rest upon the glowing fire therein, as he recalled certain little speculative money transactions that had taken place between him and Fullerton, and felt how awkward it might be if he offended his fellow-townsman.
It would be very awkward to have to side against the Rector, but of two evils Tomlinson felt bound to choose the least.
“I’m afraid that in this instance I must go against Mr Mallow,” said Tomlinson, deliberately; and Fullerton gave a triumphant glance round the room.