"If you don't come up," said Sir Richard Blunt, directing his voice down the staircase, "we will replace the stone, and you may bid adieu to the world."
"Conwulsions!" roared the beadle. "Oh, don't—conwulsions!"
Up he tumbled, with the most marvellous celerity, and rolled into the church, never stopping until he was brought up by the steps in front of the communion-table, and there he lay, panting and glaring around him, having left his cocked hat in the regions below. Sir Richard Blunt looked ghastly pale, which Crotchet observing, induced him to take a small flask from his pocket, filled with choice brandy, which he handed to his chief.
"Thank you," said Sir Richard.
The magistrate took a draught, and then he handed it to the churchwarden, as he said—
"I'll fill it again."
"All's right."
The churchwarden took a pull at the brandy, and then the beadle was allowed to finish it. They were both wonderfully recovered.
"Oh, Sir Richard," said the churchwarden, "what have you seen?"
"Nothing particular."