“Very good of Mrs. Petch—I must see if I haven’t an old pair——”
He broke off, for he had come closer to Sam in speaking, and there was somewhere in the air an unmistakable odour of the public-house.
“Your oldest would be too good for that job,” said Sam hastily. “My wife would sponge ’em with beer with a drop o’ gin in it and they’d look like new. She does that, time and again, to my old clothes. These I have on she did last night. On’y drawback is, you can’t get the smell of the liquor out all at once. You’ll maybe not have noticed, but I smell a smell of drink about this here jacket yet, though I’ve been out in it since morning.”
Andy looked hard again. Again he was met by the clear, blue gaze of honesty and simple candour. He walked away, making no remark.
But half-way across the grass he paused, shook his head, and went back.
“I would have you know,” he said, copying as closely as possible the air and manner of the senior curate, “that I am perfectly able to appreciate the difference between the odour of beer applied externally and internally. Pray remember that for the future.”
Then, head in air, he marched towards the house, feeling greatly annoyed that a dandelion root should trip him up half-way and spoil the exit.
Sam watched him go into the house, and then bent over the mowing machine in a paroxysm of helpless laughter.
“Golly—he’s a rum ’un—but not so soft as he looks.”
For young Sam Petch had many failings, but also the great virtue of being able to enjoy a joke against himself.
Meanwhile, Andy made his way to Mrs. Simpson’s sale, and as he entered the house the auctioneer’s raucous voice could be heard selling the spare-bedroom furniture. Every one was upstairs save a few who waited in the dining-room so as to have a good place when the auctioneer came in there.
Mrs. Thorpe and Mrs. Will Werrit, for instance, had planted themselves firmly by the table on which Mrs. Simpson’s cut glass and china were displayed. They were not surprised to see the new Vicar, as they supposed he would be wanting things for his house, and Mrs. Thorpe tore herself away from a fascinating and confidential conversation with her neighbour to say pleasantly glancing at him over her ample chest—