“I wish you’d excuse me,” said Mr. Harding.

“For heaven’s sake, don’t let us have division in the camp,” replied the archdeacon: “let us have a long pull and a strong pull, but above all a pull altogether; come, warden, come; don’t be afraid of your duty.”

Mr. Harding was afraid; he was afraid that he was being led to do that which was not his duty: he was not, however, strong enough to resist, so he got up and followed his son-in-law.

The old men were assembled in groups in the quadrangle—eleven of them at least, for poor old Johnny Bell was bed-ridden, and couldn’t come; he had, however, put his mark to the petition, as one of Handy’s earliest followers. ’Tis true he could not move from the bed where he lay; ’tis true he had no friend on earth, but those whom the hospital contained; and of those the warden and his daughter were the most constant and most appreciated; ’tis true that every thing was administered to him which his failing body could require, or which his faint appetite could enjoy; but still his dull eye had glistened for a moment at the idea of possessing a hundred pounds a year “to his own cheek,” as Abel Handy had eloquently expressed it; and poor old Johnny Bell had greedily put his mark to the petition.

When the two clergymen appeared, they all uncovered their heads. Handy was slow to do it, and hesitated; but the black coat and waistcoat, of which he had spoken so irreverently in Skulpit’s room, had its effect even on him, and he too doffed his hat. Bunce, advancing before the others, bowed lowly to the archdeacon, and with affectionate reverence expressed his wish, that the warden and Miss Eleanor were quite well; “and the doctor’s lady,” he added, turning to the archdeacon, “and the children at Plumstead, and my lord;” and having made his speech, he also retired among the others, and took his place with the rest upon the stone benches.

As the archdeacon stood up to make his speech, erect in the middle of that little square, he looked like an ecclesiastical statue placed there, as a fitting impersonation of the church militant here on earth; his shovel hat, large, new, and well-pronounced, a churchman’s hat in every inch, declared the profession as plainly as does the Quaker’s broad brim; his heavy eyebrow, large open eyes, and full mouth and chin expressed the solidity of his order; the broad chest, amply covered with fine cloth, told how well to do was its estate; one hand ensconced within his pocket, evinced the practical hold which our mother church keeps on her temporal possessions; and the other, loose for action, was ready to fight if need be in her defence; and below these the decorous breeches, and neat black gaiters showing so admirably that well-turned leg, betokened the decency, the outward beauty, and grace of our church establishment.

“Now, my men,” he began, when he had settled himself well in his position; “I want to say a few words to you. Your good friend, the warden here, and myself, and my lord the bishop, on whose behalf I wish to speak to you, would all be very sorry, very sorry indeed, that you should have any just ground of complaint. Any just ground of complaint on your part would be removed at once by the warden, or by his lordship, or by me on his behalf, without the necessity of any petition on your part.” Here the orator stopped for a moment, expecting that some little murmurs of applause would show that the weakest of the men were beginning to give way; but no such murmurs came. Bunce, himself, even sat with closed lips, mute and unsatisfactory. “Without the necessity of any petition at all,” he repeated. “I’m told you have addressed a petition to my lord.” He paused for a reply from the men, and after a while, Handy plucked up courage, and said, “Yes, we has.”

“You have addressed a petition to my lord, in which, as I am informed, you express an opinion that you do not receive from Hiram’s estate all that is your due.” Here most of the men expressed their assent. “Now what is it you ask for? what is it you want that you hav’n’t got here? what is it——”

“A hundred a year,” muttered old Moody, with a voice as if it came out of the ground.

“A hundred a year!” ejaculated the archdeacon militant, defying the impudence of these claimants with one hand stretched out and closed, while with the other he tightly grasped, and secured within his breeches pocket, that symbol of the church’s wealth which his own loose half-crowns not unaptly represented.