“I am afraid that my predecessor lacked a little the apostolic fervour. He was old, and liked his ease, good man. Perhaps long association with the place had blunted his prejudices. I must not play the Pharisee to him, however. No doubt so circumstanced I should have failed no less to sow the seed. Heaven sent me at a fruitful moment: to Heaven be the credit and the glory! This little boy now--nephew Dicky? He knows his catechism?” “Ah!” said Uncle Jenico, with a cunning look; “does he?” “Chit-chit!” protested the clergyman. “I hope not altogether ignorant of it?” He was decently shocked, and won an easy promise from my uncle that I should come up to him for an hour’s instruction every day. Then he rose to go. “You’ll excuse me,” he said, bending his brows, “but I trust you are satisfied with your quarters?” “Well, yes,” answered my uncle, hesitating; “but--an inn, you see. It’s a little more than we can--than we ought to--eh?” Mr. Sant brightened immediately. We came to know afterwards that he strongly disapproved of these flashy Miss Flemings, and had once expressed in public some surprise that they had not been impounded as skittish animals not under proper control. “There’s the widow Puddephatt, ripe and ready for visitors,” he said, “and perfectly reasonable, I am sure. May I give you her address? It’s No. 3, the Playstow.” My uncle thanked him warmly; and, smitten with a sudden idea, caught at his coat as he was leaving. “O, by the way!” he said, “these coins to be picked up on the beach, now. There are enough left to make it profitable, I suppose?” Mr. Sant stared at him. “The coins, Roman and other,” persisted Uncle Jenico, anxiously scanning the clergyman’s face; “the antiques, which Morant tells us litter the beach like shells after storms?” Mr. Sant shook his head. “I have heard nothing of them during _my_ time,” he said; “but I should hardly think smuggling would have got such a hold here if it were the Tom Tiddler’s ground your friend supposes it to be.” Directly he was gone, Uncle Jenico turned to me, rubbing his hands, with a most roguish smile puckering his mouth. “Richard,” he said, “we are in plenty of time. The obtuseness of the rustic is a thing astonishing beyond words! Here, with all Pactolus at his feet, he needs a stranger to come and show him his opportunities. But, mum, boy, mum! We’ll keep this little matter to ourselves.” CHAPTER VI. MRS. PUDDEPHATT AND FANCY-MARIA.