“I am very happy to find you can’t, my lord,” said Russell. “And may I ask, if you revoke Mr. Sleeman’s licence, who is to take the duty at Landkey, my other parish, next Sunday?”
“Mr. Sleeman may do it.”
“And who the following Sunday?”
“Mr. Sleeman again,” replied the Bishop, “if by that time you have not secured another curate.”
“I shall take no steps to do so, my lord; and, moreover, shall be very cautious as to whom I admit into my charges,” replied Russell.
Finally Mr. Sleeman removed to Whitchurch, a family living, to which he succeeded on the death of his father, and Bishop Phillpotts had to swallow the bitter pill of instituting him to it. I remember Mr. Sleeman as rector, hunting, shooting, dancing at every ball, and differing from a layman by his white tie, a capital judge of horses, and possessor of an excellent cellar.
When Parson Jack Russell was over eighty he started keeping a pack of harriers. The then Bishop of Exeter sent for him.
“Mr. Russell, I hear you have got a pack of hounds. Is it so?”
“It is. I won’t deny it, my lord.”