"Never, sir," said Budd, with an injured air. "I went in to take Mr Robinson's peck." "Peck of what? pease?" "Peck, sir--peck-axe--maddick." "Oh, I see," said the vicar, looking at the man so that he winced. "Well, Budd, come and see to the garden after breakfast." "That I will, sir." "And, by the way, Budd." "Yes, sir." "Don't wipe your mouth when you have been to return picks or mattocks. I'm rather a hard, matter-of-fact person, and it makes me think a man has been drinking." Jacky Budd touched his hat without a word, stuck one thumb into his arm-hole, and went off to inform the next person he met that "new parson" was a tartar and a teetotaler. By this time Simeon Slee had gone off in another direction, and as the vicar was busy with his pocket-knife, pruning some trailing branches from the front windows, Mrs Slee came to announce that his breakfast was ready, and soon after relieved him of a difficulty. "Going, eh, Mrs Slee? When?" "I thowt we'd flit to-day, sir. We only came in to take charge of the house." "Have you a place to go to?" "Yes, sir." "Humph! Well, it's best, perhaps, Mrs Slee, for I am a frank man, and I don't think your husband and I would agree. You couldn't come and keep me right till I've got a housekeeper, I suppose?" Mrs Slee could, and said she would; and that morning Jacky Budd helped the poor woman to "flit" her things to a neighbouring cottage, Simeon vowing that he'd "never set foot in the brutal priest's house again." "You're well shut of a bad lot, sir," said Jacky Budd, turning to Mr Selwood, after the last items of the Slee impedimenta were off the premises, and he had looked round the wilderness of a garden, sighed, and wondered how he should ever get it in order. "Think so, Budd?" said the vicar, drily. "Yes, sir, I do," said Jacky, resting on the spade he had not yet begun to use; "he's a Ranter, is Slee, a Primity Methody, sir--a fellow as sets up against our Church--helps keep the opposition shop, and supplies small-beer instead of our sacrymental wine." Jacky involuntarily smacked his lips as he spoke, and the vicar turned sharply upon him with knit and angry brows. But Jacky Budd was obtuse, and saw it not, but went on, wiping his forehead the while, as if he were panting and hot with his exertions. "They had him down on the plan, sir; they did, 'pon my word of honour, sir--him, a regular shack, as never does a day's work if he can help it. He was a local preacher, and put on a white 'ankercher o' Sundays, and went over to Churley, and Raiby, and Beddlethorpe, and Mardby, and the rest of 'em, he did. It's as good as a play, sir, to hear him 'preach. But they've 'bout fun' him out now." "You have been to hear him, then, Budd?" said the vicar, drily.