“Is George Potter hereabouts?” he inquired in accents discreetly modulated.
“No, Mus’ Pym.”
“Then you must find him—at once!”
“Aye, Mus’ Pym ... but whoy, sir, an’ wherefore?”
“Tell ’em, Hartop!” said the painter.
“Friends,” said the parson, leaning down from his saddle and addressing them much as if it had been a pulpit; “ye refractory souls, we be all of us human and therefore prone to err. But for myself, having the cure of souls among ye, I regard ye all as my wayward children, and, when I see ye rushing blindly on destruction, hold it my bounden duty to warn ye thereof.... Hark ye, then! Cuckmere Haven is watched to-night! There be many soldiers hidden there and upon the cliff. I have seen them with my own eyes; heed therefore my word! Pass the warning to your fellows, and thereafter let each o’ ye seek your beds with due gratitude to that ever beneficent Providence that by my humble means hath, yet again, saved ye from dire peril o’ your bodies.”
“In a word,” added Mr. Pym, “the Preventives ha’ been warned somehow and are out in force, and but for our parson would ha’ shot or taken every man o’ ye!”
“One other matter,” sighed Mr. Hartop; “you will tell George Potter, most wayward of all my children, that next time he is necessitated to use the church tower he will leave space for the bell-ropes to play freely: on the last occasion, as you will doubtless remember, the tenor bell could not be rung up.”
“Arl roight, Mus’ Hartop, sir, an’ thank’ee koindly! Ye see, ’twere one o’ they liddle tubs, sir, as went an’ jammed hisself, Mus’ ’Artop, sir. An’ a praper parson ye be, sure-lye.”