At the same moment Mr Brownrigg appeared from within the door. He approached with the self-satisfied look of a man who has done his duty, and is proud of it. I think he had not heard me. “You see I’m prompt, Mr Walton,” he said. “But, bless my soul, how ill you look!” Without answering him—for I was more angry with him than I ought to have been—I repeated— “Put that table down, I tell you.” They did so. “Now,” I said, “carry it back into the house.” “Why, sir,” interposed Mr Brownrigg, “it’s all right.” “Yes,” I said, “as right as the devil would have it.” “I assure you, sir, I have done everything according to law.” “I’m not so sure of that. I believe I had the right to be chairman at the vestry-meeting; but, instead of even letting me know, you took advantage of my illness to hurry on matters to this shameful and wicked excess.” I did the poor man wrong in this, for I believe he had hurried things really to please me. His face had lengthened considerably by this time, and its rubicund hue declined. “I did not think you would stand upon ceremony about it, sir. You never seemed to care for business.” “If you talk about legality, so will I. Certainly YOU don’t stand upon ceremony.” “I didn’t expect you would turn against your own churchwarden in the execution of his duty, sir,” he said in an offended tone. “It’s bad enough to have a meetin’-house in the place, without one’s own parson siding with t’other parson as won’t pay a lawful church-rate.” “I would have paid the church-rate for the whole parish ten times over before such a thing should have happened. I feel so disgraced, I am ashamed to look Mr Templeton in the face. Carry that table into the house again, directly.” “It’s my property, now,” interposed the broker. “I’ve bought it of the churchwarden, and paid for it.” I turned to Mr Brownrigg. “How much did he give you for it?” I asked. “Twenty shillings,” returned he, sulkily, “and it won’t pay expenses.” “Twenty shillings!” I exclaimed; “for a table that cost three times as much at least!—What do you expect to sell it for?” “That’s my business,” answered the broker. I pulled out my purse, and threw a sovereign and a half on the table, saying— “FIFTY PER CENT. will be, I think, profit enough even on such a transaction.” “I did not offer you the table,” returned the broker. “I am not bound to sell except I please, and at my own price.” “Possibly. But I tell you the whole affair is illegal. And if you carry away that table, I shall see what the law will do for me. I assure you I will prosecute you myself. You take up that money, or I will. It will go to pay counsel, I give you my word, if you do not take it to quench strife.” I stretched out my hand. But the broker was before me. Without another word, he pocketed the money, jumped into his cart with his man, and drove off, leaving the churchwarden and the parson standing at the door of the dissenting minister with his mahogany table on the path between them.