"Good afternoon!" said I. "This is excellent news that I hear about
the Vicar. I was afraid, when I first heard of his illness, that it
might be something serious--at his age--"

"Serious?" Old Trewoon rested his hands on the besom-handle and eyed
me, with a twist of his features. "Missus didn' tell you the natur'
of the complaint, I reckon?"

"As a matter of fact she did not."

"I bet she didn'. Mind you, _I_ don't know, nuther." He up-ended his
besom and plucked a leaf or two from between the twigs before adding,
"And what, makin' so bold, did she tell about the Churchwardens?"

"The Churchwardens?" I echoed.

"Aye, the Churchwardens: Matthey Hancock an' th' old Farmer Truslove.
They was took ill right about the same time. Aw, my dear"--Mr.
Trewoon addresses all mankind impartially as "my dear"--"th' hull
parish knaws about _they_. Though there warn't no concealment, for
that matter."

"What about the Churchwardens?" I asked innocently, and of a sudden
became aware that he was rocking to and fro in short spasms of inward
laughter.

"--It started wi' the Bishop's motor breakin' down; whereby he and
his man spent the better part of two hours in a God-forsaken lane
somewhere t'other side of Hen's Beacon, tryin' to make her go.