"I wasn't aware before that fishes drank wine," said the man gravely.
"It was Manlius, wasn't it?" urged the other.
"I call no names," was repeated. "All I said was, that we had a tipsy parson—and so we had. I'll prove it before a jury of a thousand, if necessary."
"It's no more than I expected," said the temperance man. "He's a mere winebibber at best. He pretend to preach the gospel! I wonder he isn't struck dead in the pulpit."
The moment his informant had left him, Perkins started forth to communicate the astounding intelligence that Mr. Manlius had been drunk on the day before, at Mr. Reeside's dinner-party. From lip to lip the scandal flew, with little less than electric quickness. It was all over the village by the next day. Some doubted, some denied, but the majority believed the story—it was so likely to be true.
This occurred near the close of the week, and Sunday arrived before the powers that be in the church were able to confer upon the subject, and cite the minister to appear and answer for himself on the scandalous charge of drunkenness. There was an unusual number of vacant pews during service, both morning and afternoon.
Monday came, and, early in the day, a committee of two deacons waited upon Mr. Manlius, and informed him of the report in circulation, and of their wish that he would appear before them on the next afternoon, to give an account of himself, as the church deemed the matter far too serious to be passed lightly over. The minister was evidently a good deal surprised and startled at this, but he neither denied the charge nor attempted any palliation, merely saying that he would attend, of course.
"It's plain that he's guilty," said Deacon Jones to Deacon Todd, as they walked with sober faces away from the minister's dwelling.
"Plain? Yes—it's written in his face," returned Deacon Todd. "So much for opposing temperance reforms and drinking wine. It's a judgment upon him."
"But what a scandal to our church!" said Deacon Jones.