"Why, what on the earth
is wrong with ye? I made sure the French had landed, at the least."
"Couldn't be much worse if they had," said my grandfather.
"Some person 've a-stole my shovel, pick, and biddicks."
"Nonsense!" said the Parson.
"The corpse won't find it nonsense, Sir, if I don't get 'em back in
time. I left 'em lying, all three, at the bottom of the grave
overnight."
"And now they're missing?"
"Not a trace of 'em to be seen."
"Someone has been playing you a practical joke, Calvin. Here, stop a
moment--" The Parson ran back to his room, fetched a key, and flung
it out into the yard. "That'll unlock the tool-shed in the garden.
Get what you want, and we'll talk about the theft after breakfast.
How soon will the grave be ready?"
"I can't say sooner than ten o'clock after what has happened."
"Say ten o'clock, then. This is Saturday, and I've my sermon to
prepare after breakfast. At ten o'clock I'll join you in the
churchyard."
II.
My grandfather went off to unlock the tool-shed, and the Parson back
to comfort Mrs. Polwhele--which was no easy matter. "There's
something wrong with the parish since I've been away, and that you
can't deny," she declared.
Pages:
251
252
253
254
255
256
257
258
259
260
261
262
263
264
265
266
267
268
269
270
271
272
273
274
275