They took no notice of the interruption, and the vicar passed through, intending to take a long walk, but he checked his steps at the gate, where he stood looking down the long street, that seemed a little brighter in the early morning.
He had not been there five minutes before he saw a sodden-looking man come out of the large inn—the Bull and Cucumber—and as the pale, sodden-looking man involuntarily wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, the vicar nodded.
“Morning drain, eh? I’m afraid yours is not a very comfortable home, my friend.”
The man was going slowly down the street when his eye caught the figure of the vicar, and he immediately turned and came towards him, and touched his hat.
“Mr Selwood, sir?”
“That is my name, my man.”
“I’m Budd, sir—J. Budd—the clerk, sir. Thowt I’d come and ask if you’d like the garden done, sir. I’m the gardener here, sir. Four days a week at Mr Glaire’s. Your garden, sir—”
“Would have looked better, Budd, if, out of respect to the church and the new vicar, you had kept it in order.”
“Yes, sir; exackly, sir; but I was too busy, sir. Shall I come, sir?”
“Yes, you may come, Budd. By the way, do you always have a glass before breakfast?”