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It was a letter which a passer-by had brought up from the Ford Post Office, and when he opened it and looked at the writing, remorse assailed him: Dear Parsun: Ever senct you preched here I ben sufrin count of my boy JocK. You know Him for he set right thar, frade of no man, not the Tobblys, nor the Crents.
"Mr Lorton," he answered, "you know I would do anything for you I honestly could, for you 'ave been a friend to me many a time, specially when I got into that row with the tax collector, when you be'aved 'andsome. But to speak to the rights of the matter, I can't say I know the lady's name wot the parsun is agoin' to marry: I only has my suspicions like."
"Well, sir," said Shuffler, "it's a secret as yet; but I don't mind telling you, Mr Lorton, as I know you won't let it out Mr Mawley, the parsun, has took the villa!" "Mr Mawley!" I exclaimed, with redoubled astonishment. "Why, what on earth does he want a house for?"
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