"This dusting job on a Saturday," said the beadle, "does seem to me to be one of the most disagreeable of all that has to be done with the church. I don't mind one's duty on a Sunday, but this is horrid. On a Sunday there's lots of people, and the old place has a sort of cheerful look about it, but now I don't like it, and I've a good mind to get one of the charity-boys of the blessed parish to keep me company."
"I will kill him, too, if you do," muttered Todd.
The beadle paused upon this thought concerning the charity-boy; but as he had finished the communion-table, he did not think that for the mere dusting the pulpit and its cushions, it was worth while to make any fuss.
"It will soon be over," he said, "very soon. I'll just pop up and settle the pulpit, and then get home again as quick as I possibly can. I do wonder, now, if that old Todd will be caught soon? The old wretch!"
The beadle began the ascent of the pulpit.
"It's my opinion," he said, "that Todd—as he had other folks made up into pies—ought to be made into one himself, and then given to mad dogs for a supper—Ha! ha! That's a very good thought of mine, and when I go to the 'Pig's-eye, Tooth, and Tinder-box,' to-night, I will out with it, and they will knock their pots and glasses against the table beautifully, and cry out—'Well done, bravo!—bravo!' I rather think I'm a great man at the 'Pig's-eye, Tooth and Tinder-box.'"
By this time the beadle had got quite to the top of the pulpit stairs, and had his hand on the door. Todd was crouched down at the bottom of the pulpit, waiting for him like some famished tiger ready to pounce upon his prey. He fully intended to murder the unfortunate beadle.
"Well, here goes," said that most unhappily-situated functionary, as he stepped into the pulpit.
Todd immediately grasped his legs.
"If you say one word, you are a dead man!"