"Ay, Mester Syddall, it's me, sure enough," replied the bellman. "I've got summat to tell you. Some mischievous chaps has been making free with your pow, and what dun yo think they've stuck on it?"
"I can't tell, Ben."
"Why, your feyther's skull. Yo can see it if yo look down. I noticed it as I were passing, and thought I'd stop and tell you."
"I should like to hang the rascal, whoever he may be, that has dared to profane that precious relic," cried Tom, furiously. "It must have been stolen, for I kept it carefully in a box."
"Well, it's a woundy bad joke, to say the least of it," rejoined Ben, with difficulty repressing a laugh. "Luckily, there's no harm done."
So saying, he took the pole and handed up the skull to the barber, who received it very reverently.
"Much obliged to you, Ben," he said, in a voice husky with emotion. "If I can only find out the rascal who has played me this trick he shall bitterly repent it."
"A Presbyterian, no doubt," cried the bellman.
"Ay, those prick-eared curs are all my enemies," said Syddall. "But we shall soon have a change. Wait a moment, Ben, I've got a job for you."
He then restored the relic to the box from which it had been abstracted, and went down-stairs.