"'Ye needn't put yourself about, Sir,' says she. 'There's been a "grand slam" upstairs.'"
Mrs. Selwyn shuddered. "Mr. Power, how could you tell such a horrible story. I feel most unwell."
"I am sorry, Mrs. Selwyn. I won't offend again."
"I pray the creature stays away until I'm gone."
Neville chuckled again in his corner. "You would find him charming until you sat down to bridge. Many is the yarn we have had over a whisky. He can tell the best story for a hundred miles round. Maybe better men could be found to pilot the soul to Heaven, but he can claim always to be at the pilot's post, and that's the Bridge. There's a good one, Maud, gel. He, he! Huh, huh, huh!"
Mrs. Selwyn had not yet recovered. "I sincerely hope our other clergy have a better sense of fitness," she said.
Neville was having trouble with his pipe. "A parson comes round these parts with a pack-horse or two every six months for a couple of days, and that is as good as one can expect. He don't get two hundred a year wages, and has to feed himself and his horses. With chaff round our parts up to eighteen shilling a bag, I would shake my head at the job myself. He don't get more than a dozen at his service, for half laughs at him, and the other half, that would go, laugh too because the first half laughs."
"If he comes while we are here, I shall make a point of going," Mrs. Selwyn said.
"Hey, Power!" cried Neville, jerking his thumb. "Here's the whisky."
"A good idea," said King.