“A queer set of people indeed,” he said, as he progressed with his hearty meal. “What capital bread, though. That butter’s delicious. Hah!” he ejaculated, helping himself to another egg and a pinky brown piece of bacon; “if there is any fault in those eggs they are too fresh. By Sampson, I must tell Mrs Slee to secure some more of this bacon.”
Ten minutes later he was playing with the last cup of tea, and indulging it with more than its normal proportions of sugar and milk, for the calm feeling of satisfaction which steals over a hearty man after a meal—a man who looks upon digestion as a dictionary word, nothing more—had set in, and Murray Selwood was thinking about his new position in life.
“Well, I suppose I shall get used to it—in time. There must be a few friends to be made. Hallo!”
The ejaculation was caused by some one noisily entering the adjoining room with—
“Now then, what hev you got to yeat?”
“Nowt.” was the reply.
The voices were both familiar, for in the first the vicar recognised that of the man in the red waistcoat—“My master,” as Mrs Slee called him.
“You’ve been cooking something,” he continued loudly.
“Yes. The parson’s come, and it’s his brakfast.”
“Brakfast at this time o’ day! Oh, then, it’s him as I see up at foundry wi’ them Glaires.”