“Then he must have locked himself in,” cried Vane.
“Not he,” said Distin. “Go and knock him up; he’s asleep still.”
“Well,” said Bruff, with a chuckle, as he stood his hook pole on end, “owd Mike Chakes can sleep a bit, I know; but if he can do it through all this ting dang, he bets me.”
“Come and see,” cried Vane, making for the church-tower.
“No; come and rout him out of bed,” cried Distin.
Just then a portly figure approached, and the rector’s smooth, quick voice was heard asking:—
“Where is the fire, my men?”
“That’s what we can’t none on us mak’ out, Parson,” said a voice. “Hey! Here’s Mester Rounds; he’s chutch-waarden; he’ll know.”
“Nay, I don’t know,” cried the owner of the name; “I’ve on’y just got out o’ bed. Who’s that pullin’ the big bell at that rate?”
“We think it’s saxton,” cried a voice.