He clapped down the cover, which, during his first astonishment, he had held suspended; and, leaning back in his chair, said, in a surly tone;—“Come, come, gentlemen; this making a jest of your chaplain, and that on Sunday morning too, is not very becoming, let me tell you! What must this gentleman, who is a stranger, think of such behaviour? I am very good-natured, sir, you must know,” he added, looking towards our hero, “and these gentlemen presume upon it.” Edmund bowed assent.
“I hope, Mr. Barns,” said the claret-faced gentleman, by name Warburton, “you mean to make your sermon to-day at least one minute the shorter, for this extempore lecture. Ten minutes, you know—we never listen after ten minutes; but promise, on the faith of a true divine, that you will not this day exceed nine minutes, and you shall have the real broil, that the steward is keeping hot without.” Mr. Barns’ countenance became less severe, when he heard that there actually was a real broil!
“Nonsense! nonsense!” he said; “but, there, call for the broil, or it will be too much done: a broil is not worth a farthing without the red gravy in it!”
The broil was called for accordingly.
“You are a man of honour, Barns,” continued Warburton; “remember the conditions: the sermon is not to exceed nine minutes this morning, or ten on any future occasion.”
“I don’t know that I shall preach at all to-day,” said Barns.
“Not preach at all!” echoed the gentleman with the high nose, making his eyes rounder than before.
“But, why? but, why?” demanded various voices.
“I don’t think the day will suit,” said Barns, taking his eye from the door for a moment, to glance it at the windows.