The Parson O' Dumford

“Thank you, no, Budd,” said the vicar, quietly. “I won’t take you from your work;” and, to Jacky’s great disgust, he went and fetched a jug of ale from his little cellar himself.

“He ain’t a bad un,” cried Harry, tearing away at the earth. “Keeps a drink o’ ale i’ the plaace. I thowt parsons allus drunk port wine.”

“Not always, my man,” said the vicar, handing the great fellow the jug, and while he was drinking, up came Jacky with his lips parted, and a general look on his visage as if he would like to hang his tongue out like a thirsty hound and pant.

“Shall I get the leather, sir, and just nail up that there bit o’ vine over the window?”

“Get the what, Budd?” said the vicar, who looked puzzled.

“The leather, sir, the leather.”

“He means the lather, sir,” said Tom, quietly, “the lather to climb up.”

“Oh, the ladder,” said the vicar. “Yes, by all means,” he continued, smiling as he saw the clerk’s thirsty look. “I won’t ask you to drink, Budd,” he went on as he handed the mug to Tom, who took a hearty draught. “You told me you did not drink beer on principle; and I never like to interfere with a man’s principles, though I hold that beer in moderation is good for out-door workers.”

“Thanky, sir, quite right, sir,” said Jacky, with a blank look on his face. “I’ll get the leather and a few nails, and do that vine now.”

“Poof!” ejaculated Harry, with a tremendous burst of laughter, as he went on digging furiously. “Well, that’s alarming.”

“What’s the matter, old mate?” said Tom.

“Nowt at all. Poof!” he roared again, turning over the earth. “Jacky Budd don’t drink beer on principle. Poof!”

The vicar paid no heed to him, only smiled to himself, and the gardening progressed at such a rate that by five o’clock what had been a wilderness began to wear a very pleasant aspect of freedom from weeds and overgrowth, and with the understanding that the two workers were to come and finish in the morning, they resumed their jackets and went off.

Their visit to the vicarage had not passed unnoticed, however; for Sim Slee had been hanging about, seeking for an opportunity to have a word with his wife, and not seeing her, he had carried the news to the Bull and Cucumber.

“Things is coming to a pretty pass,” he said to the landlord. “That parson’s got a way of getting ower iverybody. What do you think now?”

“Can’t say,” said the landlord.

“He’s gotten big Harry and Tom Podmore working in his garden like two big beasts at plough.”

“He’ll be gettin’ o’ you next, Sim,” said the landlord, laughing.

“Gettin’ o’ me!” echoed Sim. “Not he. He tried it on wi’ me as soon as we met; but I wrastled with him by word o’ mouth, and he went down like a stone.”

“Did he though, Sim?”

“Ay, lad. Yon parson’s all very well, but he’s fra London, and he’ll hev to get up pretty early to get over a Lincoln man, eh?”

“Ay,” said the landlord; “but he ain’t so bad nayther. A came here and sat down just like a christian, and talked to the missus and played wi’ the bairns for long enough.”

“Did he though,” said Sim. “Hey, lad, but that’s his artfulness. He wants to get the whip hand o’ thee.”

“I dunno ’bout that,” said the landlord, who eked out his income from the publican business with a little farming. “I thowt so at first, and expected he’d want to read a chapter and give me some tracks.”

“Well, didn’t he?” said Sim.

“Nay, not he. We only talked once ’bout ’ligious matters, and ’bout the chapel – ay, and we talked ’bout you an’ all.”

“’Bout me?” said Sim, getting interested, and pausing with his mug half way to his lips.

“Yes,” said the landlord. “It come about throof me saying I see he’d gotten your missus to keep house for him.”

“Give me another gill o’ ale,” said Sim, now deeply interested.

The landlord filled his mug for him, and went on —

“I said she were ’bout the cleanest woman in these parts, and the way she’d fettle up a place and side things was wonderful.”

“Yow needn’t ha’ been so nation fast talking ’bout my wife,” said Sim.

“I niver said nowt agen her,” said the landlord, chuckling to himself. “And then we got talking ’bout you and the chapel.”

“What did he know ’bout me and the chapel?” cried Sim, angrily.

“On’y what I towd him. I said part people went theer o’ Sabbath, and that it was a straange niste woshup.”

“Nice woshup, indeed! why you niver went theer i’ your life,” said Sim.

“I said so I’d heerd,” said the landlord, stolidly, “and then I towd him how you used to preach theer till they turned thee out.”

“What call had you to got to do that?” said Sim, viciously.

“Turned thee out, and took thy name off the plan for comin’ to see me.”

“Well, of all the unneighbourly things as iver I heerd!” exclaimed Sim. “To go and talk that clat to a straanger.”

“Outer kindness to him,” said the landlord. “It was a kind o’ hint, and he took it, for I was thinking of his bishop, and he took it direckly, for he says, says he, ‘Well, I hope I shan’t hev my name took off my plan for coming to see you, Mr Robinson,’ he says. ‘I hope not, sir,’ I says. ‘Perhaps you’ll take a glass o’ wine, sir,’ I says. ‘No, Mr Robinson,’ he says, ‘I’ll take a glass – gill you call it – o’ your ale.’ And if he didn’t sit wi’ me for a good hour, and drink three gills o’ ale and smoke three pipes wi’ me, same as you might, ony he talked more sensible.”

“Well, he’s a pretty parson, he is,” sneered Sim.

“You let him be; he ain’t a bad sort at all,” said the landlord, quietly.

“Ha, ha!” laughed Sim. “He’s got howlt o’ you too, Robinson.”

“Mebbe he hev; mebbe he hevn’t,” said the landlord.

“Did he ask you to go to church?”

“Well, not azackly,” said the landlord; “but he said he should be very happy to see me theer, just like astin’ me to his house.”

“Ho, ho!” laughed Sim; “and some day we shall have the Bull and Cowcumber at church.”

“What are yow laughin’ at, yo’ maulkin?” cried the landlord. “Why, I’d go ony wheer to sit and listen to a sensible man talk.”

“Aw raight, aw raight, Robinson; don’t be put out,” said Sim; “but I didn’t think as yow’d be got over so easy.”