But I didn't like to take him into the house, with your
good lady tumbling out of one fit into another. Hark to 'en, now!
Would you ever believe one man could make such a noise?"
"Fits! My poor, dear, tender Mary having fits!" The Parson broke
away for the house and dashed upstairs three steps at a time: and
when she caught sight of him, Mrs. Polwhele let out a louder squeal
than ever. But the next moment she was hanging round his neck, and
laughing and sobbing by turns. And how long they'd have clung to one
another there's no knowing, if it hadn't been for the language
pouring from the tool-shed.
"My dear," said the Parson, holding himself up and listening.
"I don't think that can possibly be a Frenchman. He's too fluent."
Mrs. Polwhele listened too, but after a while she was forced to cover
her face with both hands. "Oh, Richard, I've often heard 'en
described as gay, but--but they can't surely be so gay as all that!"
The Parson eased her into an armchair and went downstairs to the
courtyard, and there, as you may suppose, he found the parish
gathered.
"Stand back all of you," he ordered. "I've a notion that some
mistake has been committed: but you had best hold yourselves ready in
case the prisoner tries to escape.
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