"Please yer honour," said Pollard, "Maister Polwhele telled we the same, only 'twas nine and a half bells wi' him."
"Well, my men, you're too late. They both left here at nine. But come in: 'tis a cold night, and you won't be the worse of something warm. Susan, bring a full jug and tumblers. No one shall leave the Dower House to-night without drinking success to the mines."
The men tramped in, voluble with thanks. Susan served them each with a tumbler hot, and they left a few minutes later, with a high opinion of Mr. Trevanion's hospitality, and the comfortable feeling that they had not made their journey for nothing.
Sunday morning broke bright, frosty, and clear, the sun shining with a brilliance that belied the cold. About half an hour before church time, as Mr. Carlyon was conning over his sermon for the day, there entered to him the pluralist of the parish, Timothy Petherick, constable, sexton, beadle, and bell-ringer. There was a scowl of annoyance upon his face.
"Well, Petherick, what is it?" said the Vicar, looking up.
"Yer reverence," said the man, "hain't I telled 'ee times wi'out number that the bats and owls do make a roostin' place o' holy church-tower?"
"I believe you have."
"Well, yer reverence, it didn' oughter be," said Petherick, smiting his fist. "They heathen animals didn' oughter take up their habitation in sech a Christian place. 'Like owl in desert,' says the Book, not 'like owl in church-tower.'"
"Clear 'em out, and be hanged to 'em," said the parson. "Yet, after all, they don't do any harm."
"No harm! Dash my bones, yer reverence—God forgi'e me for usin' Saturday words of a Sunday—they do do harm. Do 'ee think I can strike a true Christian note out o' the bell? No, not I; 'tis all clodgy, like the spache of a man that's rum-ripe, and all because some owl or airy-mouse hev made his nest on the clapper, scrounch un."