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Updated: June 18, 2025
As he went out he merely remarked, “Our acquaintance has been brief, Mr Butler, but it has been quite sufficient.” “Quite,” thought Mr Bunker. That was Mr Bunker’s first and last meeting with the Rev. John Duggs, and he took no small credit to himself for having so effectually incensed his neighbour, without, at the same time, bringing suspicion on anything more pertinent than his sobriety.
She gave me to understand that you were not undesirous of making my acquaintance, Mr Butler.” “The deuce, she did!” thought Mr Butler. Aloud he answered most politely, “I am honoured, Mr Duggs. Won’t you sit down?” First casting a wary eye upon a chair, Mr Duggs seated himself carefully on the edge of it. “It is quite evident,” thought Mr Bunker, “that he has spotted something wrong.
In response to his “Come in,” a middle-aged gentleman, dressed in clerical attire, entered. He had a broad, bearded face, a dull eye, and an indescribably average aspect. “The devil! Mr John Duggs himself,” thought Mr Bunker, hastily adopting a more conventional attitude and feeling for his button-holes. “Ah—er—Mr Butler, I believe?” said the stranger, with an apologetic air.
Mr Duggs seemed to regard the cigar-box a little less unkindly than the whisky bottle; but after a careful look at it he replied, “I am afraid they seem a little too strong for me. I am a light smoker, Mr Butler.” “Really,” smiled Mr Bunker; “so many virtues in one room reminds me of the virgins of Gomorrah.” “I beg your pardon? The what?” asked Mr Duggs, with a startled stare.
My companions were manicured alive, and I only made my escape in a pagoda, or a junk—I was in too much of a hurry to notice which—at the imminent peril of my life. Don’t go to China, Mr Duggs.” Mr Duggs rose. “Young man,” he said, sternly, “put away that fatal bottle.
“Still, don’t you think one can generally tell a man’s creed from his coat, and his sympathies from the way he cocks his hat?” “I think,” replied Mr Duggs, “that our ideas of our vocation are somewhat different.” “Mine is, I admit,” said Mr Bunker, who had come to the conclusion that the strain of playing his part was really too great, and was now being happily carried along by his tongue.
It was only, however, a hansom at the door of the next house, out of which a very golden-haired young lady was stepping. “Aha,” said Mr Bunker, quite forgetting the indignant rôle he had begun to play; “rather nice! Is this your friend, Mr Duggs?” Mr Duggs gave him one look of his dull eyes, and walked straight for the door.
“I am no great admirer of religious fiction of any kind,” replied Mr Duggs, “particularly that written by emotional females.” “No,” said Mr Bunker, pleasantly; “I should imagine your own doctrines were not apt to err on the sentimental side.” “I am not aware that I have said anything to you about my—doctrines, as you call them, Mr Butler.”
We ’ave ’ad clerical gentlemen ’ere before, sir; in fact, there’s one a-staying ’ere now, second floor,—you may know of ’im, sir,—the Reverend Mr John Duggs; a very pleasant gentleman you’ll find him, sir. I’ll tell ’im you’re ’ere, sir; ’e’d be sure to like to meet another gentleman of the syme cloth, has they say.” Somehow or other the Rev.
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