“What, ain’t he dead yet?” asked Bumford.
“No,” returned Shepherd. “The doctors be afraid that internal inflammation’s a-setting in now. Any way, he is rare and bad, poor man.”
Next came in my set of singers, chiefly boys and girls from the parish school. But they sang better than such children generally sing; and would have sung very well indeed with an organist who had his head on his shoulders the proper way. Mrs. Todhetley had long taken pains with them, but latterly it had all been upset by Richards’s crotchets.
“Now, look here,” said I, gathering them before me. “We are not going to have any shrieking to-day. We sing to praise God, you know, and He is in the church with you and hears you; He is not a mile or two away, that you need shout out to be heard all that distance.”
“Please, sir, Mr. Richards tells us to sing out loud: as loud as ever we can. Some on us a’most cracks our voices at it.”
“Well, never mind Mr. Richards to-day. I am going to play, and I tell you to sing softly. If you don’t, I shall stop the organ and let you shout by yourselves. You won’t like that. To shout and shriek in church is more irreverent than I care to talk about.”
“Please, sir, Mr. Richards plays the organ so loud that we can’t help it.”
“I wish you’d let Mr. Richards alone. You won’t hear the organ loud to-day. Do you say your prayers when you go to bed at night?”
This question took them aback. But at last the whole lot answered that they did.