“What!” exclaimed the bishop, who was very active, very fussy, and a great stickler for discipline. “This important church, so renowned for its three miraculous bells, confided to the tender mercies of an imbecile rogue who may burn it down any night! I will look to it myself without losing a minute.”
And in spite of all remonstrances, off he started. The keys were brought, the doors flung open, the body of the church thoroughly examined, but neither in nave, choir, or chancel could the slightest trace of the sacristan be found.
“Perhaps he is in the belfry,” suggested a chorister.
“We’ll see,” responded the bishop, and bustling nimbly up the ladder, he emerged into the open belfry in full moonlight.
Heavens! what a sight met his eye! The sacristan and the devil sitting vis-a-vis close by the miraculous bell, with a smoking can of hot spiced wine between them, finishing a close game of cribbage.
“Seven,” declared Euschemon.
“And eight are fifteen,” retorted the demon, marking two.
“Twenty-three and pair,” cried Euschemon, marking in his turn.
“And seven is thirty.”
“Ace, thirty-one, and I’m up.”