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Updated: June 17, 2025
"I want to know more about this Association, and where we come in. . . . Just now, Mrs Steele was talking about a District Secretary and local distributors which looks to me as if the whole business was cut-and-dried." "There's nothing cut an' dried about me, ma'am." Farmer Best's sharp little eyes twinkled, and he chuckled obesely. "Again Mrs Polsue has the right of it," answered the Vicar.
"Oh, well, if that's your piece of news," said Mrs Polsue with her finest satirical air, "it was considerate of you to put on your bonnet and lose no time in telling me. . . . But how long is it since we started 'Mister'-ing Nanjivell in this way?" Miss Oliver's face grew crimson.
An' did 'ee ever know a woman, not gone in the strikes, that didn' keep some wit at the back of her temper? . . . I was dealin' with Mrs Polsue, don't you make any mistake." "It struck me that she had been distressin' you, an' you'd be glad to get the rids of her." "So I was in distress.
As from time to time he essayed to clear one or another of these, the resultant noise, always explosive, resembled the snort of a bullock or the klock of a strangulated suction-pump. With these interjections Mrs Polsue on the one hand, Farmer Best on the other, punctuated the following dialogue. "Danging it don't answer my question nor banging it," persisted Mrs Polsue.
"The Districts at present correspond with the Deaneries in the diocese." "O-oh, indeed? Ha!" "There is worse to come, Mrs Polsue." He laughed frankly. "You asked, 'Who are the local distributors? A present rule of the Association which I beg you to believe that I regret provides for two agents in each parish, to report and advise on cases: the Parson, and one of the Guardians."
'Twould be some kind of an explanation, though mebbe not the most satisfactory. . . . When I tell you that the man walked into my bar, three days since, an' scattered sovereigns all over my floor! When I tell you he couldn' pull out a han'kerchief to blow his nose but he sneezed sovereigns!" Mrs Polsue gasped.
"Folks don't happen on buried treasure in Polpier; and you can't have a legacy without its getting into the papers." Mr Latter had no sooner departed than she put on her bonnet and paid a call on her friend Miss Charity Oliver. "If Mr Pamphlett were only a magistrate " said Mrs Polsue, after telling her story.
I remember wondering how cleaning chimneys even those long factory ones could be so profitable in the north of England, until it turned out that a sweep was some kind of horse-race." "The Derby, as it is called," said Mrs Polsue, imparting information in her turn, "is the most famous of horse-races, and the most popular, though not the most fashionable. It is called the Blue Ribbon of the Turf."
"I have been expecting it for a long while," responded Mrs Polsue darkly. Like some other folks in this world, she produced much of her total effect by suggesting that she had access to sources of information sealed to the run of mankind. She ever managed to convey the suggestion by phrases and, still more cleverly, by silences which left the evidence conveniently vague.
Had the phrase been his own, or Nicky-Nan's? He must give himself time to think this out, for it might well be the clue. The Corporal had spoken of finding two of the three sovereigns under the soil. . . . While Mr Latter's brain worked, he cast a quick glance at Mrs Polsue, in fear that he had gone too far.
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