Panurge; and so passed the archdeacon's morning on that day.

He was left undisturbed at his studies for an hour or two, when a
knock came to the door, and Mr Chadwick was announced. Rabelais
retired into the secret drawer, the easy-chair seemed knowingly to
betake itself off, and when the archdeacon quickly undid his bolt,
he was discovered by the steward working, as usual, for that church
of which he was so useful a pillar. Mr Chadwick had just come from
London, and was, therefore, known to be the bearer of important news.

"We've got Sir Abraham's opinion at last," said Mr Chadwick, as he
seated himself.

"Well, well, well!" exclaimed the archdeacon impatiently.

"Oh, it's as long as my arm," said the other; "it can't be told in a
word, but you can read it;" and he handed him a copy, in heaven knows
how many spun-out folios, of the opinion which the attorney-general
had managed to cram on the back and sides of the case as originally
submitted to him.

"The upshot is," said Chadwick, "that there's a screw loose in their
case, and we had better do nothing. They are proceeding against Mr
Harding and myself, and Sir Abraham holds that, under the wording of
the will, and subsequent arrangements legally sanctioned, Mr Harding
and I are only paid servants. The defendants should have been either
the Corporation of Barchester, or possibly the chapter of your
father."

"W-hoo!" said the archdeacon; "so Master Bold is on the wrong scent,