“Know them? I should think I do know them: he is our curate,” replied my companion, who was, I may mention, the daughter of a clergyman. “The Church is looking up when curates sit behind high-stepping bays,” said I. “He is the best curate we ever had,” said she. “He is the most obliging man ever known. He never grumbles at having to take both services some Sundays and to preach as well--a splendid preacher, too--never longer than a quarter of an hour.” “Anything else?” I inquired. “Yes,” she said slowly and with something of awe in her voice. “He is a one bisquer at croquet!” I tried to catch sight of the carriage and its bays, but it must have been a mile away by this time. “And he does all that out of the hundred and fifty pounds a year your father pays him?” “He does indeed, eked out by the five thousand a year his father left him: his father was Sir Edmund Bonnewell, the great contractor. You have heard of him?” I had. IV.--THE ENCYCLOPÆDIC PARSON It is impossible that every one should be fully informed on all points even in so enlightened a community as Broadminster; but there is one clergyman who has a reputation for being the most artful fisherman in the Close, and of being always able to answer any question that may be put to him by the most casual inquirer. I heard him discussing the origin of a fire that had taken place in the town a few days before, and, as is usual in these days, it was said to have been due to a short circuit in the electric wires. “I have often wondered what a short circuit is,” said a lady. “Can you tell me what it is, Mr. Tomlinson?” “A short circuit? Oh, it's very simple,” said the fully informed parson. “A short circuit is when--when--oh yes, when it is only a very short way from the electric lamp to where the wire is joined on to the cable.” “And that causes the fire?” she asked. “Oh, of course--it is bound to, sooner or later.” “I wonder why they don't make it longer then.” “Oh, that's the way they scamp everything nowadays.” Only a few days had passed before I heard him telling another lady of the good luck that had attended the pottering about bookstalls indulged in by a brother parson in a neighbouring town. “He wrote to me a few days ago, to tell me that he had picked up a genuine 'Breeches' Bible for sixpence,” he said; “and only a short time before he bought a fine Aldine for fourpence. What luck!” “Extraordinary,” said the lady. “I'm afraid that I forget what a 'Breeches' Bible is, Mr. Tomlinson.” He laughed good-naturedly. “Pray, what is a 'Breeches' Bible?” she asked coaxingly. He was quite ready for her. “A 'Breeches' Bible?” he cried. “Oh, a 'Breeches' Bible is the one that was carried by Cromwell's troopers in their pockets; it was made specially for carrying about--small, you know, and compact. I remember reading that several of the soldiers had their lives saved owing to the bullets having lodged in the volume in their breeches pocket.”