“Why, what ever do you mean, Sam Shears?”
“I mean,” rejoined Sam, boldly, though he felt that Molly’s fiercest glance was upon him, and almost choked himself in the endeavour to hide himself in a cloud of his own creating—“I mean, I don’t think as he’s a regular parson. If he had been, you see, he’d have took some of the duty. Besides,” continued the official, reassured by Binns’ respectful attention, “we had a little talk while we was a-waiting for master after church—I offered him a humbereller, you see—and I just asked whereabouts his church was, and he looked queerish at me, and said he hadn’t no church, not exactly; and then I begged his pardon, and said I thought he was a clergyman; and he said, so he was, but somehow he seemed to put me off, as it might be.” Binns nodded.
“To be sure,” said Molly; “and ’twas like your manners, Sam, to go questioning of him in that way.”
“Bless you, I was as civil as could be; however, I say again, I ’as my doubts: he’d a quakerish-looking coat too, such as I never see’d on a regular college parson. He’s the very moral of a new Irvingite preacher.”
“And what’s their doctrines, Sam?” asked Molly, whose theological curiosity was irresistibly excited.
“Why,” said the clerk, after a puff or two to collect his thoughts, “they believes in transmigration.”
Binns made a gesture of awe and abjuration.
“Stuff!” said Molly, “that’s popery: nor you don’t suppose, Sam, that master would have anybody of that sort in his house—eh, Mr Binns?”
The benefit of that gentleman’s opinion was lost to both parties, for it was at that juncture “master” himself entered, and having discussed his communication, which related to a sick wife, bid him call again in the morning, and the wheelwright took his leave.