The gig had swept past Sulby Chapel when Cæsar began to ask for the parson's opinion of certain texts. “And may I presume, Pazon Quiggin, what d'ye think of the text--'Praise the Lord. O my soul, and all that is within me praise His Holy Name?'” “A very good text after meat, Mr. Cregeen,” said the parson, blinking his little eyes in the dark. It was Cæsar's favourite text, and his fire was kindled at the parson's praise. “Man alive,” he cried, his hot breath tickling the parson's neck, “I've praiched on that text, pazon, till it's wet me through to the waistcoat.” They were near to “The Manx Fairy” by this time. “And talking of praise,” said Cæsar, “I hear them there at their practices. Asking pardon now--it's proud I'd be, sir--perhaps you'd not be thinking mane to come in and hear the way we do 'Crown Him!'” “So the saints use the fiddle,” said the parson, as the gig drew up at the porch of the inn. Half a minute afterwards the door of the parlour flew open with a bang, and Cæsar stood and glared on the threshold with the parson's ruddy face behind him. There was a moment's silence. The uplifted toe of Katherine trailed back to the ground, the fiddle of Pete slithered to his farther side, and the smacking lips of Niplightly transfixed themselves agape. Then the voice of the parson was heard to say, “Vanity, vanity, all is vanity!” and suddenly Cæsar, still on the threshold, went down on his knees to pray. Cæsar's prayer was only a short one. His mortified pride called for quicker solace. Rising to his feet with as much dignity as he could command under the twinkling eyes of the parson, he stuttered, “The capers! Making a dacent house into a theaytre! Respectable person, too--one of the first that's going! So,” facing the spectators, “just help yourselves home the pack of you! As for these ones,” turning on Kate, Pete, and the constable, “there'll be no more of your practices. I'll do without the music of three saints like you. In future I'll have three sinners to raise my singing. These polices, too!” he said with a withering smile. (Niplightly was worming his way out at the back of Parson Quiggin.) “Who began it?” shouted Cæsar, looking at Katherine. From the moment that Cæsar dropped on his knees at the door, Pete had been well-nigh choked by an impulse to laugh aloud. But now he bit his lip and said, “I did!” “Behould ye now, as imperent as a goat!” said Cæsar, working his eyebrows vigorously. “You've mistaken your profession, boy. It's a play-actorer they ought to be making of you. You're wasting your time with a plain, respectable man like me. You must lave me. Away to the loft for your chiss, boy! And just give sheet, my lad, and don't lay to till you've fetched up at another lodgings.” Pete, with his eye on the parson's face, could control himself no longer, and he laughed so loud that the room rang.