“But, dear father,” I cried, “we already have a lectern,” and indeed this was literally the case, since the cavity or enclosure adjoining the choir seats, from which the vicar or his curate read the service, was also provided with a separate book-rest for the purpose of delivering the lessons. “Yes, I know,” said my father, “but that wouldn’t deter Carkeek.” “But surely,” I cried, “the vicar hasn’t accepted it?” “He has not only accepted it,” said my father, “but the thing’s in position.” “In position,” I said, “and looking to the left?” My father nodded again. “Just west of south,” he said. “But good heavens,” I cried, “I say it in all reverence, then it must be staring right into our pew.” “So it is,” said my father, “and not only that, the brazen hell-bird’s protruding its tongue.” The room darkened a little. “But not intentionally?” I asked. “You don’t mean to say that it’s protruding its tongue intentionally?” My father gulped once or twice. Then he bowed his head. “Yes, I do,” he said, “and I say it deliberately.” Then he rose to his feet and stood looking down at me. “And that’s not the worst,” he said, “not by a long way.” “Not the worst?” I cried. “What do you mean?” My father swayed a little, but managed to recover himself. “I mean this,” he said. “I mean that Alexander Carkeek is trying to get himself made churchwarden.” For a moment I was stunned. My father sat heavily down again. “But good God,” I cried, “that amounts to simony.” “I know,” said my father. “That’s what I’ve told Carkeek.” “Then you’ve seen him?” I said. My father looked at me grimly. “I’ve not only seen him,” he answered, “but I’ve told him what I’ve thought of him. And I’ve explicitly informed him that if he’s made a churchwarden, I shall take proceedings against him in the ecclesiastical courts.” My father leaned back closing his eyes, and I had never admired him more, perhaps, than at that moment. “And the vicar,” I said. “Have you spoken to the vicar?” “I was obliged to warn him,” said my father, “in identical terms.” “You could do no less,” I said. “But what about the bird itself?” “I regret to say,” said my father, “that he professed to admire it.” I stared at him aghast. “Professed to admire it?” I gasped. “The vicar that we have supported all these years?” My father covered his eyes for a moment. “Even so,” he said. “As I had to point out to him, I was seriously shaken.” “But surely you protested,” I cried. “For seventy-five minutes,” said my father. “But couldn’t he perceive,” I said, “that it was a direct insult to us?” My father moved his hand a little. “He claimed that it was not so. He said that the majority of these birds looked towards the left.” “But not with their tongues out,” I cried. “He seemed to think so. He said it was symbolic of inward joy.” “But good heavens,” I said, “I repeat it with all reverence, does he expect us to worship under conditions like that?”