"Tolerably well. But what is it you want with me? out with it, spooney. Any job in my line, eh?" inquired the clergyman.
"Yes, indeed, doctor," replied Chancey, "and a very good job; you're wanted to marry a gentleman and a lady privately, not a mile and a half out of town, this evening; you'll get five guineas for the job, and I think that's no trifle."
The parson mused, and scratched his head again.
"Well," said he, "you must do a little job for me first. You can't be ignorant that we members of the Church militant are often hard up; and whenever I'm in a fix I pop wig, breeches, and gown, and take to my bed; you'll find the three articles in this lane, corner house—sign, three golden balls; present this docket—where the devil is it? ay, here; all right—present this along with two guineas, paid in advance on account of job: bring me the articles, and I'll get up and go along with you in a brace of shakes. And stay; didn't I hear some one talking of brandy? or—or was I dreaming? You may as well get in a half-pint, for I'm never the thing till I have some little moderate refreshment; so, dearly beloved, mizzle at once."
"Dear me, dear me, doctor," said Chancey, "how can you think I'd go for to bring two guineas along with me?"
"If you haven't the rhino, this is no place for you, my fellow-sinner," rejoined the couple-beggar; "and if you have, off with you and deliver the togs out of pop. You wouldn't have a clergyman walk the streets without breeches, eh, dearly beloved cove?"
"Well, well, but you're a wonderful man," rejoined Chancey, with a faint smile. "I suppose, then, I must do it; so give me the docket, and I'll be here again as soon as I can."
"And do you mind me, you stray sheep, you, don't forget the lush," added the pastor. "I'm very desirous to wet my whistle; my mums, by the hokey, is as dry as a Dutch brick. Good-bye to you, and do you mind, be back here in the twinkling of a brace of bed-posts."
With this injunction, and bearing the crumpled document, which the reverend divine had given him, as his credentials with the pawnbroker, Mr. Chancey cautiously lounged down the crazy stairs.
"I say, my nutty Nancy," observed the parson, after a long yawn and a stretch, addressing the female who sat at the window, "that chap's made of money. I had a pint with him once in Clarke's public—round the corner there. His name's Chancey, and he does half the bills in town—a regular Jew chap."