There was a hearty laugh at this, in which the man of whom the story was told joined.
“Strange different sort o’ man this one to the last parson,” said the grocer.
“Ay, he is. Do you mind owd parson’s dunk pigs?” said Johnson, the butcher.
“To be sure,” said the landlord, rapping his pipe. “I’ve got four of the same breed now.”
“He used to come and see you pretty oftens, didn’t he?” said the grocer.
“Oh, yes; he’d come toddling up on the saints’ days to Mrs Winny’s there, and sit for a bit, and then come across here, and sit and wait, and have a gill o’ ale, and then if there was anybody coming up to church, Jacky Budd—Jacky Budd’s father, you know—would come and fetch him, and if there was nobody coming Jacky used to lock the church doors again and go back home.”
“He was a rum one, he was. Fond of his garden, too.”
“Well, so’s this un,” said the landlord. “He’s getten it to raights now.”
“Course he has,” said Slee. “Getten it done for nowt, wi’ Tom Podmore and big Harry, and iver so many more wucking for him.”
“You let th’ parson alone, Sim,” said the landlord, who was a bit of an autocrat in his own parlour, “and he’ll let thee alone.”