But the burning passion that smouldered in the breast of the Ship landlady was in no way shared by the little sexton.
“Missus Waggetts,” he would say, “folk in the death trade should keep single; they gets their fair share of misery, Lord above knows, in these parts with the deaths so uncommon few.”
“Well,” Mrs. Waggetts would sigh, “I often wish as how it had been me that had been took instead of Waggetts. I fair envy him lying up there all so peaceful like, just a-rottin’ slowly along in his coffin.”
But the sexton would immediately fly into a rage with: “Waggetts’ coffin rottin’, did you say, Missus Waggetts? Not mine. I undertook Waggetts, I’d have you remember, and I don’t undertake to rot. I loses money on my coffins, Missus Waggetts. I undertakes, ma’am, undertakes to provide a suitable affair wot’ll keep out damp and water, and cheat worm, grub, slug, and slush.”
“Nobody would deny, Mister Mipps,” the landlady would answer in a conciliatory tone, “as to how you’re a good undertaker. Anyone with half an eye could see as how you knocks ’em up solid.”
But Mipps didn’t encourage Mrs. Waggetts when she was pleased to flatter, so he would take himself off in high dudgeon to avoid her further attentions.
This actual conversation took place one November afternoon, and the sexton, after slamming the inn door to give vent to his irritation, hurried along the seawall toward his shop, comforting himself that he could sit snug inside a coffin and cheer himself up with hammering it.
On the way he met Doctor Syn, who was standing silhouetted against the skyline with his telescope focused upon some large vessel that was standing in off Dungeness.
“Ah, Mr. Mipps,” said the cleric, handing his telescope to the sexton, “tell me what you make of that?”
Mipps adjusted the lens and looked. “The Devil!” he ejaculated.
“I beg your pardon?” said the Doctor. “What did you say?” One of the King’s preventer men had come out of his cottage and was approaching them.
“I don’t make no head nor tale of it,” replied the sexton. “Perhaps you do, sir?”
“Well, it looks to me,” continued the parson, “it—looks—to—me—uncommonly like a King’s frigate. Can’t you make out her guns on the port side?”
“Yes!” cried the sexton; “I’ll be hanged if you’re not right, sir; it’s a damned King’s ship as ever was.”
“Mr. Mipps,” corrected the parson, “again I must ask you to repeat your remark.”
“I said, sir,” replied the sexton, meekly handing back the glass, “that you’re quite right: it’s a King’s ship, a nice King’s ship!”
“And she’s standing in, too,” went on the parson. “I can make her out plainly now, and, good gracious! she’s lowering a longboat!”
“Oh!” said Mr. Mipps, “I wonder wot that’s for?”
“A revenue search,” volunteered the preventer.
Mipps started. He hadn’t seen the preventer.
“Hello!” he said, turning round; “didn’t know you was there, Sir Francis Drake. What do you make of that there ship?”
“A King’s frigate,” replied the preventer man. “She’s sending a boat’s crew ashore.”
“What for?” asked the sexton.
“I told you: a revenue search; to look for smugglers.”
“Smugglers,” laughed the parson, “here in Dymchurch?”
“Aye, sir, so they say. Smugglers here in Dymchurch.”
“God bless my soul!” exclaimed the parson incredulously.
“How silly!” said the sexton.
“That remains to be seen, Mister,” retorted the preventer.
“What do you say?” said the sexton.
“I say, Mister, it remains to be seen.”
“ ’Course it does!” went on the sexton. “Let’s have another blink at her. Well,” he said at length, closing the telescope with a snap, and returning it, “King’s ship or no, they looks to me more like a set of mahogany pirates, and I’m a-goin’ to lock up the church. King’s men’s one thing, but havin’ the plate took’s another, and one that I don’t fancy, being held responsible; so good afternoon, sir”—touching his hat to the vicar—“and good afternoon to you, Christopher Columbus.” And with this little pleasantry, which struck him as being the height of humour, the grotesque little man hopped off at high speed in the direction of the inn.
“Odd little man that, sir,” said the preventer.
“Very odd little man,” said the vicar.
III
The Coming of the King’s Men
Meantime the little sexton had arrived, breathless and panting, at the inn. Here he was accosted with a breezy, “Hello, Mr. Mipps, where’s the Doctor?” The speaker was Denis Cobtree, the only son of the squire.
This young worthy of some eighteen summers was being prepared in the paths of learning by the vicar with a view to his entering the university; but Denis, like his father before him, cared very little for books, and the moment the Doctor’s back was turned, off he would slip to talk to some weather-beaten seaman, or to attempt a flirtation with Imogene, the dark-haired girl who assisted the landlady at the inn.
“Just been talkin’ to the vicar on the seawall,” said Mipps, hurrying past into the parlour and calling loudly for Mrs. Waggetts.
“What do you want?” said that good lady, issuing from the kitchen with a teapot in her hand. Tea was the luxury she indulged in.
“A word,” answered the sexton, pushing her back into the kitchen and shutting the door behind him.
“Whatever is it?” asked the landlady in some alarm.
“What’s the time?” demanded the sexton.
“A quarter to four,” replied Mrs. Waggetts, turning pale.
“Good!” said the sexton. “School will be closing in a minute or two, so send Imogene round there to ask Mr. Rash to step across lively as soon as he’s locked up. But no”—he added thoughtfully—“I forgot: Rash is a bit struck on the girl and they’ll linger on the way; send young Jerk, the potboy.”
“Jerk’s at school hisself,” said Mrs. Waggetts.
“Then you go,” retorted the sexton.
“No,” faltered the
