Before, however, the party got half way to the door of the church, they heard a vociferous argumentation going on in that quarter, and the voice of the beadle, who was well known to Sir Richard, was heard exclaiming—
"I will come in. I'm the beadle. Fire! Fire! I will come in. What! keep a beadle out of his own church? Oh! Oh! Oh! Conwulsions conwulsions! It ain't possible."
"Gentlemen," said the magistrate, "we must repress our friend the beadle's curiosity. Let us all say 'Hush' to him as we go out, and not another word."
This was generally understood, and they walked slowly in a kind of procession to the church door.
"Pitchforks and hatchets!" cried the beadle. "I will come in. Dust to dust, and ashes to ashes. Look at my hat and coat; I ain't a himposter, but a real beetle! Bless us, who is here? Why—why, there ain't no service nor a wedding. What a lot of folks. Have they been a grabbing of the Communion plate? Oh, murder, conwulsions, and thieves!"
Sir Richard went close up to him, and in the most mysterious way in the world, whispered in his ear "Hush."
"Eh?" said the beadle.
Sir Christopher took hold of him by the collar of the coat, and said—"Hush."
"Well, but—but—"
The fruiterer beckoned to him with great gravity, and when he come forward a pace or two, said—"Hush."