“Biggle!” cried the little clergyman.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Biggle!” vociferated the little clergyman. “Biggle!”
“Certainly. Did you ever see anything like that cure? Ah! you ought to preach about dear Harriet, Mr. Segerteribus, you really—”
“Biggle!” reiterated the little clergyman, excitedly. “Biggle! Biggle!”
“What does he—” began Mrs. Bridgeman, turning helplessly towards the Prophet.
“It’s his name, I fancy,” whispered the Prophet.
Mrs. Bridgeman started and smiled.
“Mr. Biggle,” she said.
The little clergyman moved on towards the guitars with all the air of a future colonial bishop. Mrs. Bridgeman, who seemed to be somewhat confused, and whose manner grew increasingly vague as the evening wore on, now said to those nearest to her,—