“Two-and-forty, sir, wi’out the schoolchildren.”
“But you counted the singers, Budd?”
“No, sir, I didn’t; two-and-forty wi’out.”
“Ah, Budd, it’s very sad,” said the vicar, sighing. “I hoped for better things by now.”
“Why, we never used to hev such congregations in the owd vicar’s time, sir, as we do wi’ you. We never used to hev more than five-and-twenty o’ wet Sundays, and I hev know’d him preach to six.”
“Hah!” A long sigh and a mental question, “What can I do to bring them here?” as Jacky Budd shuffled as far as the door and back.
“Owd Robinson from the Bull, and his missus, just come in, sir; and Master Bultitude and Miss Jessie, and John Maine from the farm, makes forty-seven, sir. If I might make so bold, sir, don’t you think we ought to hev a collection?”
“Why, that’s due next Sunday, Budd, and a strange clergyman coming,” said the vicar, hardly able to restrain a smile.
“That’s why I said it, sir,” said Budd, slily. “You wean’t get a score o’ people here nex’ Sunday.”
The vicar shook his head, and looked at his watch, which Jacky took as a hint to go, and he went as far as his desk, opened his book, and then saw something that made him softly shuffle back to where the vicar was waiting for the first stroke of the clock to start for the reading-desk.