“You have gone and done a fine thing, Master Johnny Ludlow!”
The salutation came from Clerk Bumford. He was standing at the church-door on Sunday morning, looking out as if he expected me, his face pale and stern. I had run on betimes: in fact, before the bell began.
“What have I done, Bumford?”
“Why, you just went and left this here church open last night! You never locked it up! When I come in but now, I found the door right on the latch; never as much as shut!”
Beginning to protest till all was blue that I had shut and locked the door—as I knew too well—caution pulled me up, and whispered me to take the blame.
“I’m sure I thought I locked it, Bumford. I never left it unlocked before, and I’ll take care I never leave it so again.”
“Such a thing as having the church open for a night was never heered of,” he grumbled, turning away to ring out the first peal of the bell. “Why, I might have had all my store o’ candles stole! there’s nigh a pound on ’em, in here. And my black gownd—and the parson’s gownd—and his surplice! Besides the grave-digging tools, and other odds and ends.”
Shutting himself into his den underneath the belfry, and tugging away at the cords, the bell tinkled out, warning the parish that it was time to start for morning service. The bell-ringer was a poor old man named Japhet, who was apt to be a little late. Upon which Bumford would begin the ringing, and blow Japhet up when he came.
Not a soul was yet in church. I went down the middle aisle softly calling Fred Westerbrook’s name. He did not answer; and I hoped to my heart he had got clear away. The open entrance-door seemed to indicate that he had; and I thought he might have left it undone in case he had to make a bolt back again. Nevertheless, I could not shake off the remembrance of my unpleasant dream.
Of all troublesome idiots, that Bumford was the worst. When I went back, after passing by all the remote nooks and corners, Japhet had taken his place at the bell, and he was telling the parson of my sins.