CHAPTER VI
When Andy went into the garden next morning he buckled on tight the mantle of the senior curate and advanced across the grass to where Sam Petch was bending over a flower-bed with an air of decent contrition. No skulking behind bushes for him—he prodded dismally for all the world to see.
Andy, in spite of himself, felt slightly mollified, but he had made up his mind to say a certain thing, and he said it.
“This state of things cannot continue. You bring discredit on my profession, my parish, and myself.”
There—that was it—just as the senior curate would have put it; Andy took hold of his coat lapel, coughed, and waited—just as the senior curate would have done.
It is one of those facts about human nature which cannot be explained, that while Andy disliked the senior curate exceedingly, and had groaned under his oppressive rule, he strove to imitate that gentleman. Perhaps he unconsciously wanted people to be as much impressed by him as he had been by the senior curate.
Anyway, Sam Petch appeared to be greatly impressed by the dignified rebuke.
“I own I’d had a drop too much,” he said repentantly. “But Bill Shaw drank five times what I did and never turned a hair. It shows how unfair things is, sir.”
“If a little makes you drunk you must refrain from that little,” said Andy, severely.
“I know,” acknowledged Sam. “But it is hard when a man can’t take his mug o’ beer with the rest without getting what you might call jolly; isn’t it, sir?”