“Of course it is,” interrupted the clergyman. “I have made arrangements to satisfy the ambition of Belcher, which appears to tend in the direction of a vestry-cart, and we are putting in a hydraulic blower which we should have put in years ago. You will find it a great convenience in your practice, Mr. Langly, for it is always ready and never complains.” The organist tried to thank the rector, but his throat seemed not at his command for other effort than a gulp or two. The good man smiled at the grotesque twistings of Langly’s mouth and the rapid winking of his eyelids; then the organist turned abruptly and walked away, tortured afterwards with the fear that the rector might have thought him rude and ungrateful; but the old man knew the musician much better than the musician knew himself. After that, when Langly chanced upon the indignant and gravely wronged Belcher, at the tail of his oft-mentioned but entirely unexpected cart, the young man shrank from the encounter, and felt that inward uneasiness which is termed a troubled conscience. “Call that Christianity!” Belcher would say to his mate when their rounds took them near St. Martyrs,--“a-puttin’ a squirtin’ water-pump in there, to tyke th’ bread out o’ a pore man’s mouth, an’ a-cuttin’ down o’ ’is livin’ wyge! Yus, an’ the lawr a-forcin’ us to support the Church too.” But Belcher was really of a forgiving spirit, and should not be judged by his harsh language towards the Establishment which, he was under the impression, rigourous legal enactment compelled him to subsidize; for he so far overlooked Langly’s conduct as to call upon him occasionally, and accept a few pence as conscience-money. “I don’t blime ’im,” said Belcher magnanimously, over his pot of beer, “as much as I do the mean old duffer wot preaches there. ’E put me on the cart.”