The Getting Even of
“Parson” Guyles

I

Is Mr. Magee in?” shouted a burly, thick-necked, very self-assured looking man.

The self-assured looking man rapped heavily with his stick on the counter of the small book shop, as he shouted; and at the same moment a door opened noiselessly, away among the shadows, at the back of the shop.

A lean, grim face, with clean-shaven mouth, and wearing a grey goatee, Dundrearys and blue glasses, stared out from the shadows.

“Is Mr. Magee in, confound your rotten business ways!” shouted the burly man. And beat angrily again upon the counter.

The man who owned the grim, clean-shaven mouth, came forward, with a curiously noiseless step, out of the darkness that lay in the back portion of the long, narrow shop.

“I’m Mr. Magee,” he said, quietly. “Ye’ll kindly stop that sort of noise in my shop.”

“My time’s money,” said the stout man. “I can’t wait all day in a hole like this, while you play dominoes in the back parlour. I don’t wonder your business is rotten. Your methods are rotten. And I consider the offer I have to make you is far above the mark. I’m the agent for Mr. James Henshaw. I’ve been instructed to offer you £50 for your business, and your stock at valuation. If you like to take £100 down and clear out this week-end, I’ll give you a cheque now, and you can sign this agreement.”

The stout Agent drew a foolscap envelope from his pocket; but Mr. Andrew Magee intervened.

“The door, Sir,” he said, quietly, “is to your left. I’ll thank you to be going now.”

“You mean,” said the Agent, “that you’ll fight, like a lot of other silly fools have tried to do. You know what that’ll mean; we are opening a thirty yard frontage right next door to this hole of yours. Your potty business’ll be dead in a fortnight. It’s a present I’m offering you; that’s what it is.”

Mr. Andrew Magee came round the counter. He was tall, and had a lean, hard figure. He touched the other man on the elbow.

“The door, Sir,” he remarked, gently, “is to your left—”

“Be damned to you and your door!” roared the Agent. “You smug, ignorant, unbusinesslike fool. Take my offer, or out of this hole we’ll have you in a couple of weeks.”

“I allow no man to call me that, Sir,” said Mr. Andrew Magee, as he hit the Agent hard and solid on the side of the jaw. “That’s not to give you the dope,” he said; “but to teach you to mend your manners. Out of my shop!”

The last four words came with a queer metallic-sounding rip of cold passion, that somehow fitted well the grimness of face and figure of Mr. Magee. And the Agent stayed for no further argument. He rose, staggering; gripped the side of his fleshy jaw, and ran wordless out of the shop.

“Damn a’ bloodsuckers an’ them as useth their power to oppress!” said Mr. Magee, solemnly, as he stood by the counter. “Am I never to live honest, or must the sins of my youth wither always the chances of my age?”

Such phrases as these may be better understood when we realise that Mr. Andrew Magee’s proper name was Andrew McGuyles, and that in his young manhood he had been a Presbyterian minister, and had never, despite his deviations from the “narrow path,” ceased to have a deep feeling for all matters of religion. Many a time, had he fought to gain back to an honest life, and each time he had fallen, either when his own particular “devil” entered him, or because, as now threatened, the Fates were minded to deal him one more unkindly clout of misfortune.

“Professionally,” Mr. Andrew Magee, or McGuyles, was known always as either “The Parson” or “Parson” Guyles. The title was a respected one on both sides of the water; for a cleverer safe-blower (i.e., safe-breaker) there had never been in either country.

II

The Agent was quite right, in the main, when he said they would run the “Parson” out of his shop, in quick time.

The Agent, and Millionaire James Henshaw (who had made his first money by curious methods on the other side, and was now increasing it by methods equally undesirable) had a few words about the dour Scotsman, whose premises they wished to annex.

“Yes,” said Millionaire Henshaw, when the Agent had told his story. “Run him out. Make an example of him, by all means. We can’t let that sort of thing pass. We’ve got to put the fear of God into them, and then buy ’em out at skim-milk prices.”

Parson Guyles did not get even a “skim-milk” price. He was ruined utterly within three months, by being totally undersold, until he did not have half a dozen customers into his little dark shop in a day.

The hour in which he put his shutters up for the last time over the little window, would have been a bad time for the Millionaire or his Agent to have met him. However, he had a little money saved, and he disappeared quietly, having paid all his debts; for Parson Guyles, when he was living honestly, lived honestly, because of the grim Puritan blood that was in him.

III

When Parson Guyles at any time ceased to be found at any address known to the Profession, it was generally concluded among his expert friends that “the Parson was on the honest lay again,” and no attempt would be made to discover his whereabouts, until he chose to re-discover himself. Perhaps this consideration for what many of them must have regarded as nothing more than a recurrent peculiarity of the Parson’s, may have been partly prompted by the complete and efficient unpleasantness that followed upon any intrusion, by his expert acquaintances, into what might be termed his “hours of honesty.”

But now, three months after he had put up the shutters in the little book shop, the Parson appeared once more among people who knew and appreciated him for his record of “work accomplished”; and because of this, accorded him a welcome, that had in it a respect that rose above any criticism of his peculiar instincts for, and lapses into, what our spiritual advisers term the Narrow Path.

During the months which lay between the closing of the little shop and Parson Guyles’ re-appearance, he must have put in a great deal of professional work, in the way of expert Inspection of Premises; for when he convened a meeting of three (John Vardon, engineer; Sandy Mech, expert “spade and shovel” man, and himself) the proposition he had to lay before the meeting, backed up by the very exact and appropriate information that he had to offer on all needful or disputable points, produced amazing, though professionally subdued, enthusiasm.

“You are sure the limit of Eternal Wonder, Parson,” said Sandy Mech. “Count me and J. V. in to the last snuffing. I reckon the Almighty—”

“We’ll ha’ na talk of the A’michty,” interrupted Parson Guyles, sternly. “There’s just John Vardon and you and me an’ the De’il in this; not to mention yon Millionaire hog. The A’michty, I pray, will no interfere, an’ that’s as much as ma conscience can hope.”

IV

“This is going to be a longish job, ye’ll understand” said the Parson, as they stood, together, in the cellar of a house across the street from the big Emporium, which had extended until all vestige of the shop of one, Andrew Magee, had vanished.

There were a number of interesting parcels stacked upon the cellar floor, and John Vardon proceeded to unpack one of the longer packages.

John Vardon had been, as lately as the past year, a highly respected Consulting Engineer; but was now discredited, owing, to his connection with that unpleasant little affair of the Go-a-gath mines in West California. He unpacked the parcel and produced the component parts of a folding table, which he proceeded to erect. There followed further unpackings, which produced several instruments of a design familiar to mining engineers. He effected what I might term a conjunction of parts, and began to adjust the instruments.

Meanwhile, the Parson had lit up a distinctly spirited “glow” lamp, by tapping the main wire, with a confidence that would have appalled a municipal expert, and a skill that would have bewildered the head Practical Electrician of a private wiring firm.

Then the Parson and Sandy Mech began to unpack and lay out the contents of the other parcels; and while Sandy Mech gloated over ingenious little digging tools, that possessed surprising little nickel connections for electrical wiring, the Parson pored, with a grimmer appreciation, over sundries of a kind unknown outside of his own craft, and to few even who were of it.

John Vardon was busy now with a tracing of a municipal street-plan, the obtaining of which had been due to night work on the part of the Parson.

The rent of the basement in which the cellar was situated, had cost the Parson no less than £30 of his hardly saved money; this sum being three months’ “advance,” demanded by the City, Land and Estate agents, in the usual course.

It was impossible to occupy the basement, without some sufficient business pretext to prevent suspicions; and the Parson boldly made use of his old trade name of Andrew Magee, Bookseller, which he had painted along the “sunk” windows, in black, backed in by a light cream, which would not keep out too much daylight; yet rendered the whole premises safe from the prying of any over-curious persons.

He was able without difficulty to obtain sufficient stock on credit, owing to his having paid all his previous bills; though now, being on other Paths than those of honesty, he had not the least intention of paying.

In this way, he was able to cover securely all doubtful signs; for it was merely apparent that Andrew Magee had obtained financial backing somehow, and returned to do further battle with the huge Emporium of all stores (including books and stationery), opposite. And this, after all, is a perfectly correct description of his intention!

The tunnel under the road was commenced that night, the walls of the cellar being pierced after about two hours’ work. There followed six feet of soil, and then eight feet of earth packed so hard that it was like some patent composition.

Four days, and the early portion of each night, they excavated, with Sandy Mech very earthy and damp and in his element, as he handled his pet midget drills. They did not work after the streets became still, lest the vibration of their machine should be conveyed through the earth, sufficiently to become apparent to any constable or passer-by. Moreover, the work was going forward at a speed that would enable them easily, unless something quite unexpected happened, to reach the strong-room by the eighteenth of the month. This was the date the Parson had fixed for entering the Millionaire’s new strong-room, which was of the latest model, and had been elaborately and incorrectly described at great length in a score of popular journals.

The earth from the tunnel was stored in the empty rooms of the basement, which were kept locked. The sub-underground shop was very little patronised, luckily, as the Parson observed, for the wholesale book people, and this enabled Parson Guyles frequently to slip into the cellar, where he worked at carrying out the loose earth; having fixed up a temporary electric bell to warn him if anyone entered the shop.

He found it undesirable, however, to leave the shop unattended; for one day, on hearing the bell ring, he went in, to find a big constable in uniform waiting impatiently.

“You won’t get no trade here, if you keeps everybody waiting half the day like this,” said the big policeman. “I want a re-fill for this pocket book. I nearly went opposite, only I thought I’d patronise you; you had a shop t’other side, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” said Andrew Magee, tersely. “Here’s your re-fill. Sixpence ha’penny, please.”

“Why, I gets ’em for four an’ a half, opposite!” said the policeman, aggrieved.

“Maybe,” said the Parson. “But they’re only straw-paper, and they ha’ twenty-five leaves less in each book. Maybe, if you learnt to keep your eyes open, which I’ve a notion is your trade, you’d be a better policeman. You ha’ na room to teach me my trade, I’m thinkin’!”

The policeman paid, grumbling, and went out.

“I don’t want your sort in here,” said Andrew Magee, to himself. “And I reckon you’ll ha’ no mind to come here at that price again! All the same, maybe, it was pryin’ you were after; and I’ll leave the shop no more in hours.”

V

“That,” said John Vardon to the Parson, on the fifth day of their work, “is the gas main.” He touched with his thumb the edge of a great round of iron, that was visible through the clayey earth in the top of the tunnel. “I’ve run the drift straight, so the blessed main’s sunk a bit. There’s gravel showing here, and we’ll have to line her, I’m afraid. There’s been some proper municipal work in the laying of this tin pipe!”

VI

“I reckon we’re across. I’m up against the wall!” said Sandy Mech, coming out of the tunnel on the evening of the eleventh day.

Five hours later, they were through the wall, and within the foundation of Millionaire Henshaw’s huge Emporium.

“Six yards and twenty-seven inches more, including one division wall, and we’ll be up against the strong-room,” said John Vardon, after a further careful series of measurements on a tracing of the builders’ secret plans of the situation of the strong-room, which tracing was, like the others, also a product of the Parson’s skill in eluding those mechanical difficulties, which are presumed to ensure doors remaining closed to strangers.

VII

“We’re there,” said Sandy Mech’s voice, in hoarse excitement, as he came out into the cellar on the afternoon of the fifteenth day. “It’s cement outside. And I s’pose there’ll be that everlastin’ crossed railway iron to go through. How I do hate the fool as started that idee!”

“There’s worse, lad,” said Parson Guyles. “This is nigh the latest, and they got Anson’s net wirin’, running right through the cement; and the current’s on all the twenty-four hours, and it’s a six-inch mesh. If we snick a single wire either way, the bells in all the Police Stations for a mile round will be ringing. How would you go through that, lad?”

“Lordy!” said Sandy Mech. “Each man to his own job, Parson. I guess you’ll manage. You’re a holy wonder.”

“I’m a mighty sinful man,” said Parson Guyies, sombrely.

VIII

“The wire’s laid just under a skin of the cement” said the Parson, about 11 p.m. that night; for the actual work of breaching the strong-room could not be attempted in the daytime. He fingered the stark, grey surface of cement, where the tunnel ended. “It lies in a hollow, between the main wall of the room and my finger. Hark to the hollow sound of this!” And he tapped it with a small, beautifully shaped pick-hammer, no more than two ounces in weight, that shone like silver.

With swift, light strokes of marvellous judgment and skill, he picked an oblong hole clean through the outer cement-skin, which proved to be one inch thick.

“This,” muttered the Parson, as he inserted an investigating finger, “is where a rash man would spoil himsel’ and ha’ the constables swarming round before he knew what might be wrong—” He broke off short, and stared at Sandy Mech, as if suddenly stirred by some other thought.

“I wonder now if yon fat constable had a notion of ought,” he said, pondering.

“Eh?” asked Sandy Mech, startled by the mention of so unpleasing a name. “What cop?”

But Parson Guyles merely shrugged his shoulders. “Just a notion of mine, laddie,” he said. He knew Sandy Mech’s cautious nature too well to explain. He had never mentioned the incident to either Vardon or Mech of the constable’s brief and untimely patronage, Vardon might not have troubled unduly; but Sandy Mech was as shy as a rabbit. Perhaps his burrowing propensities had something to do with his nervous traits.

“The K wrench,” said the Parson, a few seconds later. This instrument, which was made of nickel steel, and possessed extraordinarily thin jaws, covered with gutta-percha, he slipped carefully into the hole he had picked, and proceeded to break away the shell of cement. He worked with an infinite care, that showed how great he considered the risk; and presently he had laid bare a complete network of insulated wire.

“Now,” said Parson Guyles, “I’ll ha’ yon insulation pliers an’ the coil of wire. I’ve a real respec’ for yon Anson; for it’s a pretty arrangement; but the wiring should ha’ been friction-spliced, an’ the splices supported in the outer skin; then it would ha’ been a mighty hard thing to peel away the skin, without breakin’ the circuit. But he’s a smart lad, is Anson, and maybe I’ll give him a point or two, that’ll help him to improvements. . . . Cut me a couple dozen four-foot lengths off the coil, an’ peel the ends ready, Sandy, lad.”

While he talked, the Parson had been working. He had removed the insulation, for a space of several inches from the lowest of the horizontal wires, and now he took a length of wire from Sandy Mech, and twisted the two bare copper ends firmly round the cleaned portion of the horizontal wire, about an inch apart. Then, with a pair of pliers, he cut the horizontal wire clean through, in the inch between the two twisted-on ends of the loop of wire.

“G’ Lord! Parson!” said Sandy Mech, as Parson Guyles cut the wire. “You’ve sure done it now!”

“Na, lad,” said the Parson, “you’re a good spade and shovel man; but ye’re na good at this work, I’m thinkin’! Have ye no the brains to see that yon loop of wire carries, the current from one cut end to the other. I’ve but lengthened the wire a wee, to give us room to put our sinful bodies through.”

“If you know it’s right, Parson, I’m satisfied,” said Sandy, in a doubtful voice; and continued to cut lengths of wire.

Two hours later, Parson Guyles, having treated the rest of the network in similar fashion, commenced work upon the inner wall of cement.

IX

“For men wanting cash as we do, I reckon you’ll say this is the finger of Providence, Parson,” said Sandy Mech, three nights later, as he peered through the breach into the strong-room, on the night of the eighteenth.

“There’s na finger of Providence about this, my lad,” said Parson Guyles, who already stood within the strong-room. “That I ha’ left the straight path, ye ken well; but I spread na honey! This is the finger o’ the de’il; and if I hope to make a wee profit from the pointing thereof, I hope also to keep my brain clear to ken Satan when I see him!”

Sandy Mech grinned back silently at John Vardon, who was peering in over his shoulder. They were careful, in the main, not to “touch the Parson up” on this side of him; for he was too rough a fighter to provoke unnecessarily; and on religious subjects he was easily provoked.

“There’s nothing now to stop us, but the inner circuits. They’ve altered them since the room was first wired, as I could see by the notes on the plan margins,” said the Parson. “I couldna just put my finger on the plan of the new co-ordination; and I’ll ha’ to be careful, laddies, or we shall touch off one of the spring connections, and there’ll be half the officers in the City round this block, before you can whistle.”

“I don’t like that, Parson,” said Sandy Mech, in a rather grim voice. “I’d a notion you said you knowed the wirings; an’ . . .”

“The old wiring, Sandy,” said the Parson, smiling curiously. “The old wiring, lad. Maybe I misled you a wee; for I had need of help to get even with mine enemy; and maybe cautious Sandy Mech might ha’ held back if he’d thought it wasna all cut an’ dried—eh, lad?”

“Stow it!” said Mech. “Once I sees the cash winkin’ up at me like this, I don’t go back, not this side chokee—”

“That’s how I read you, laddie,” interpolated Parson Guyles, mildly.

“All the same, Parson,” went on Sandy Mech, with growing wrath, “for a religious man, you ain’t careful if you speaks God’s trewth, or if you lies like a blame trooper; and I don’t mind tellin’ you so, straight,”

“You son o’ the de’il—” began Parson Guyles, furiously; but John Vardon chipped in quickly.

“Drop it, for all sakes!” he said. “We’re not going to mug things now by rowing like a lot of ‘new pups.’ Drop it, and let’s get to work. I’ll bet the Parson has a good notion how the new wiring is likely to be co-ordinated. He’s just making you hotter than you need be!”

“You’re a wise man, Vardon, in your generation,” said the Parson, calming. “Put your gloves on, the two of ye, and hand me mine, and the big dividers. Then you can come in, both of you; and remember the two of ye have as much grease paint on your faces as would do for a puir de’il of an actress wench; so keep your gloves off it, or you’ll smear it.”

“Why ain’t you made up, Parson?” asked Sandy Mech, as he began to put on a pair of good quality black kid gloves. “You need to be disguised more than me or John ’ere.”

“You’re a bit of a fool, Sandy, not to think before you speak; though I’m doubtin’ then if ye’d ever speak at all!” said Parson Guyles, as he took his own pair from Sandy Mech. “First, ha’ anyone here, or even you two ever seen my natcheral face? Don’t the people round here know me as Andrew Magee! And ha’ ye no’ brains to see it’s Andrew Magee they’ll look for! Don’t they know I’m the one that took on the basement we’ve driven the tunnel from; not to mention the officer that came in the other night, and made belief he wanted a re-fill! Lord, I wonder if he did come in honest, or to pry?”

“What!” said the two others; both startled.

The Parson explained.

“I said nothing to the two o’ ye,” he continued. “What was the use of givin’ you the jumps when the work had to be done. And anyway, I never notioned till to-night that he came in on the sneak; but I’m wondering now. I’ve got the feel in ma blood to-night that maybe yon man had designs. I’ll say na mair. But if you’re wantin’ to go now, why I’ll never stop ye.”

“Now!” said both men, as one.

“Why you old—” began Sandy Mech.

“Cut it out, laddies,” said Parson Guyles, cheerfully. “I’m a short tempered man, as ye ken” (the Parson grew more Scottish, as he indulged his vein). “An hour mair, if ye’ve the pluck o’ white mice, an’ ye’re rich for all ye’r sinful evil lives; not but ye’ll both be as poor as foolish babes a month hence. There’s John Vardon now, the lusts o’ the flesh, John Vardon, are the ruination of ye. The——”

“Good Lord! he’s going to preach!” said Sandy Mech. “Stow it, Parson. We’re with you into hell and out again. ’Ere’s them dividers.”

The Parson took them from him, without a word; and Sandy never knew how near he was to Eternity in that one instant; for the dividers were of steel, and heavy, and in every way adequate for so unpleasant a purpose. But John Vardon saw, and understood.

“Sandy!” he said, “shut your silly mouth. The Parson is right. We’re both a pair of fools. . . . I tell you what, Parson, if I get the whack I’m looking for out of this, I’ll cut the crook, and go away somewhere and live straight. I will, by the Lord, I will.”

Parson Guyles’ eyes gleamed with a strange and wonderful light.

“God grant it, lad,” he said, with a sudden uncovering of the hidden cravings of his nature. “I wad die easier to think there had some good come out o’ my sinfu’ life. I haud ye to ye’r word, John Vardon, on the honour of all that you once were.”

“I give you my word, Parson,” said John Vardon, with perfect sincerity. “I’ve been a fool once; but if this comes right and we get what you think is coming to us, I’ll leave England this week—”

“Not you, John!” interrupted Mech. “I’ve felt that way, when I first started in the perfession. It’s just nerves; not funk, mind you, John; but nerves. It’ll go when you handle your share of the oof.”

“Sandy Mech,” said Parson Guyles, in a fierce but quiet voice, “say one word mair of your de’il’s talk, an’ I’ll wring your neck, as Samuel hewed Agag in pieces before the Lord.”

And Mech, impudent, sturdy irresponsible Sandy Mech, held his tongue; for even he knew better than to cross the Parson further in that mood. But John Vardon said nothing. He fidgeted a moment or two with his gloves; and seemed as if he might be vaguely ashamed because the better side of him had so unexpectedly answered to the bizarre cry of the “lost shepherd” (bizarre because of its very sincerity) to a lost sheep.

“Come in, both of you, an’ stan’ by the wall, out o’ my way,” said the Parson.

The strong-room was different from any that John Vardon had seen, in his brief experience of the Profession; and even Sandy Mech had never seen the same inner arrangements; for the prodigious wealth was simply and neatly packed into steel trays, arranged along the floor in rows, with nothing between it and their hands, but the low steel-latticed covers, locked down with invisible locks to the floor.

Overhead, burned an electric light, and showed plainly the notes, bonds, or gold, as the case might be, in their respective numbered trays. It seemed to the two onlookers that they had nothing to do but burst the thin steel lattice-work with a crowbar, and fill their bags; but the Parson’s casual remarks, showed just why the money was so stored, and the reasoning upon which it was considered safe:—

“Yon’s a pretty arrangement,” he said, as he spread out the plan of the old wiring, on the floor of the strong-room. “That’s McLegg’s invention—the idea of the ‘meat-covers.’ It’s good points, as ye’ll see. You’ll perceive that a bank offecial can assure himself that things is right, without having to unlock aught; at the same time there can be na temptation to casual, honest-men’s pickin’ an’ stealin’, as you might say, on the part of any lesser offecials that ha’ their occasional duties in here. . . . That was McLegg’s way of looking at it. A countryman of mine, laddies, and clever; for the meat-covers are apt to trick the unwary. Henry Gably, a fair safe-blower too, was put away for a ten year spell only last month, through that same invention. He’d a notion to ha’ the contents of the big Utrecht Bank, out Tallwar way. He got in through the roof; quieted the watchmen, an’ made na bones about it, but just dynamited a breach clean through the wall o’ the gold room. By the de’il’s own luck, he wasna killed nor heard; but they had this same idea o’ McLegg’s inside the room, an’ he thought, foolish lad, he’d naught to do, but rip the meat-covers open, an’ fill his bags.

“Well, before he’d ripped off the second, the officers were mobilising, as you might say, from all round the district; for you can’t touch these little grids, unless ye know the co-ordination of the wiring, without ringing up the police; and that’s just the tricksiness of the notion; for they tempt a man to be done wi’ fine work, and just rip them open.”

Parson Guyles took the long dividers, and “set” them carefully; then he placed one point of the instrument right into the angle of the West corner of the room, and drew a segment of a circle across the corner, from wall to wall, at full radius. He did the same in the East corner; then, at each place where the segments of the circles touched the walls, he pressed a sprig into the soft rubber tiling which covered the floor. From the sprigs, he stretched two thin lines, across the room, between the rows of cages; then, with his dividers, he straddled along each of the lines, making a chalk mark at each place where the points touched.

With a knife, he cut a square clean out of the rubber tiling, round each of the chalk marks. He took a case of marvellously finished tools from his pocket, also a large horseshoe-magnet. He pressed the horseshoe-magnet against the steel floor; and lifted out of its slot in the floor, a beautifully fitting “invisible” metal plate.

“I thought so,” said Parson Guyles, as he examined the terminals of the wiring, which had been so cunningly hidden under the metal cover. He went round to each of the openings in the rubber, and did the same; then he took a pair of pliers from his case, and began work upon the wiring.

“I darena cut them; for they run the main through this wiring at nights,” he explained. “And the night-lights upstairs would fluff out, laddies, if I were to cut, and that would trouble the officer outside. Aye! it’s a bonnie brain that thought this out.”

He worked at the terminals for half an hour, crossing from opening to opening.

“I ha’ small doubts but I ha’ replaced the old coordination,” he said, at last, standing up and stretching himself.

There were thirteen of the flat lattice cages on the floor of the room, and Parson Guyles pulled out his purse. He opened it, and took from it a bunch of minute slips of bright metal, curiously notched.

“I made these from rubbings of the firm’s triplicates, when I took the chart-tracings,” he said. “The whole thirteen keys are here. Aye! I put in a deal of labour to the success of this night’s work!”

“You’re a holy wonder, Parson!” said Sandy Mech, from where he stood, waiting by the wall. “Every man to his own job. I reckon Providence meant you for a safe-buster, Parson.”

John Vardon nudged the enthusiastic “spade and shovel” man, to be silent; but the Parson took no bitter offence.

“The ways o’ the A’michty are strange an’ wonderful, Sandy,” he said, with a kind of sadness in his voice. “I ha’ foughten oft against my weakness; but the natcheral evil that is in me, an’ the bitterness o’ man in general, ha’ turned my feet always into the downward path. . . .” He paused, examining the keys thoughtfully. “But the desire to do battle wi’ the evil that is in me, dies not, laddie, an’ maybe one day I shall triumph, an’ live the life I wad best like. Oh, aye, the life I wad best like. Aye me ! . . . Now,” he continued, changing suddenly, “by the old co-ordination, that I trust I ha’ replaced truly, the covers can only be unlocked in the following way:—To open Number 1, I must unlock Number 10 and Number 3; then return to Number 1 and lift it open; but if I attempt to open either 10 or 3, after I’ve unlocked them, it sets off the alarrum; also one or two other things, that maybe I’ll not tell ye now, laddies. An’ a likewise reasoning applies to all.”

He studied some notes in his pocket book. “The numbers for unlocking the covers are according to the following:—

“Unlocking 10 and 3 unlocks 1.

“ 1 ” 7 ” 2.

“ 9 ” 8 ” 3.

“ 6 ” 3 ” 4.

“ 13 ” 12 ” 5.

“ 13 ” 2 ” 6.

“ 4 ” 11 ” 7.

“ 5 ” 12 ” 8.

“ 10 ” 2 ” 9.

“ 12 ” 11 ” 10.

“ 9 ” 6 ” 11.

“ 8 ” 2 ” 12.

“ 5 ” 7 ” 13.

“Now then, we’ll make a test o’ our de’il’s luck that I could near pray the A’michty shall abide with us this night; for then, John Vardon, you shall go free of the chains, and I shall have vengeance upon mine enemy.”

He walked quietly across to the tenth cage, and inserted one of the notched slips of metal. It turned easily, without a sound.

“That’s workmanship,” said the Parson, with momentary professional pride. “Good work tells.” He walked over to Number 3, and the key he had made for it, fitted equally well.

“Now, for the test,” he said, and stepped across to Number 1.

Sandy Mech’s naturally ruddy face whitened perceptibly, and John Vardon stirred uneasily, where he stood beside Mech; but only an added touch of grimness in the lines of Parson Guyles’ mouth, showed that he also felt the strain of that supreme moment.

The Parson stooped and took hold of the handle of the latticed steel cover, Number 1. He lifted gently, and the cover hinged backward sweetly and noiselessly.

“God be thankit! God be thankit!” he muttered, in a subdued outburst of relief. He stood up and beckoned to where Sandy Mech and John Vardon had leant forward simultaneously from the wall. Sandy Mech’s eyes burned and glowed with the true money-greed, at the sight of the uncovered thousands in coined gold, waiting only to be lifted out; but John Vardon’s eyes were eager in another way. He saw there his suddenly desired freedom from the Supreme Failure that, in his morally slackened condition, he had begun to look upon as inevitably his fate. His eyes were intense with anxiety more than desire.

The Parson, on his part, had a strange mixture of triumph and a newly born anxiety in his expression; but dominating all, in that instant, was simple thankfulness and, strangely incongruous as it must seem, a subtle consciousness of holier thoughts. Abruptly, he said:—

“John Vardon, come and take the freedom I ha’ to offer ye. Fetch the bags.”

As Sandy Mech and John Vardon crept down the tunnel, for the bags, the Parson rapidly unlocked 1 and 7, 9 and 8, 6 and 3, 13 and 12. 13 and 12 opened a little less easily, and the Parson stood up to examine the key. He waved a hastening hand as Vardon and Mech re-appeared with four small portmanteau-like bags and a couple of grip-sacks.

“Haste ye,” he said. “Maybe, out o’ evil shall come good; but I misdoubt the soundness o’ it. Yet the A’michty works in various ways His Wonders to pairform— Whist! What waur that?”

In the instant that followed, they all heard it, like a knell upon their varied hopes and longings:—the sound of an alarm gong, rattling hideously in the night; the noise coming plainly down the cleverly hidden ventilation shafts. In the same instant, there came a sudden, momentary, tremendous bluish glare of light in the room, that made the interior of the strong room brighter than any day that ever shone.

“We’re done!” shouted Sandy Mech, in a positive screetch. “We’re found out! Scoot!”

The Parson whipped a heavy revolver out of his pocket.

“A cool head, ma laddie, or I’ll drop ye here an’ now,” he said calmly. “John Vardon, begin to stow the gold in the bags. Sandy, lad, you hark to me. The police will be here, inside of ten minutes. What’s gone wrong, I do not just know; but maybe I made some wee slip in the re-wiring. Now, hark ye; after the police are here, they can never, come at us, save through the tunnel that no one but our three selves ken of, inside of a lang half hour. They’ve to bring the three separate offecials that hold the three emergency keys, that are never used except in an emergency like the present. I ha’ it all worked out, down to the time it will take them to get here, even if they dress in the taxi. An’ it cannot take less than seven and thirty minutes from this moment, before yon door is opened. By then, we shall ha’ all the gold we need, an’ we’ll be lang gone away through the tunnel, and out by the back passage, and away in the car of our friend, John Vardon. Now, are ye quit of your panic, laddie; for I’ve na more time to waste on ye?”

Sandy Mech had got hold of himself, as he realised that there was not only time to achieve the gold, but that an effectual line of retreat was ready prepared; and he nodded back, rather shame-facedly, at the Parson.

“You’re boss, Parson,” he said. “I’m all right now.”

“That’s a goodish thing,” said Parson Guyles. “A very goodish thing. Get packing the gold, smart now.” He opened the remaining cages, with a perfectly controlled nerve.

“Surely hath mine enemy been delivered into mine hand!” he muttered; and picking up one of the gripsacks, began to fill it rapidly with bonds.

“Nay!” he said, catching John Vardon’s glance. “Just to burn, laddie, and so to repay an eye for an eye. I will take a hand with the siller in a moment.”

As each of the diminutive, strongly-built portmanteaux were filled with the solid little bags of gold coin, Parson Guyles locked and strapped them carefully, his amazing coolness acting on the others in a nerve-steadying way; so that they worked with a swiftness and method that had in it no signs of the panic, that might have been expected in three burglars who knew that, already, the police were drawing a cordon round the very building which they were robbing.

As the Parson was strapping the fourth portmanteau, there came suddenly, voices, seeming far away and muffled:—

“The door’s not touched.” . . . “Where are they?” . . . “Inside . . .” “They’ve tunnelled in. . . .” And then a silence, during which there were several soft thuds on the door.

“Not a sound, either of ye!” whispered Parson Guyles. “Keep them guessing, laddies. Keep them guessing. The longer the better!”

“. . . There’s no one inside!” came one of the muffled voices. “The door’s not touched; and they can’t have tunnelled in, for this room’s got an Anson’s patent ‘warning’ incorporated in the walls. It’s absolutely impossible to get in that way without ringing us. And it would take them a week after that to cut through.”

Parson Guyles smiled, grimly, inside the room.

“The emergency keys will be here in less than half an hour,” continued the voice, “and then we can get in. I expect some of the electrical gear has fused, or something. Anyway, it’s certain there’s nothing to bother about.”

“That’s good for us!” said Parson Guyles, still in a whisper. “Now get the bags out. And never a sound, laddies. If they knew we were here, they’d be sure we’d tunnelled, and they would ha’ a cordon round all the near-bye buildings, and make immediate investigation of all likely basements and cellars.”

He lifted the four, enormously heavy, small portmanteaux, one after the other into the tunnel, and John Vardon and Sandy Mech began to creep with them, with infinite difficulty, along to the cellar. They found it easiest to take only one portmanteau at a time—one of them creeping on hands and knees, with the bag on his back, and the other steadying it from rolling off.

This method required four journeys to get the portmanteaux into the cellar; and then the two returned hurriedly for the grip-sacks, one of which was filled with notes and the other with bonds.

“Darn silliness! I call it,” said Sandy Mech, as he crept behind John Vardon. “You can’t do nothin’ with bonds; nor no wise pup ever messes with notes. They’re rotten dangerous.”

“Drop it!” said John Vardon. “The Boss knows what he’s doing. He’s a wonderful man. Come on, and get it done.”

“I’m with you,” said Mech, honestly. “ ’E’s a bloomin’ wonder; but I never ’ad no use for paper trash.”

They reached the strong-room again; and, silently, Parson Guyles passed out the two grip-sacks, stuffed with paper of incredible value.

“I’ll be with ye in a moment,” said the Parson. “Go ahead.”

Sandy Mech led the way back along the tunnel to the cellar. He had the bigger of the two grip-sacks, which, though quite light, was difficult to handle, owing to its size and the way in which it kept catching the inequalities of the walls and roof of the narrow drift.

“Cuss the thing! Cuss it! Cuss it!” he exclaimed, suddenly, as the sack caught for the tenth time on a snag in the roof.

John Vardon raised his head, as he crept some feet behind Mech, to see what was wrong. He had lit the tunnel in three places with incandescent lights, that made it tolerably bright. He saw something that made him sicken; for the roof, only partly and hastily lined, was sagging perceptibly, and Sandy Mech’s sack was caught by some protruding fragment of the down-sagging roof.

“Stop, Sandy!” he said, in a hoarse voice. “Stop!”

But even as he spoke, Sandy Mech lurched forward once more, dragging at his sack, and swearing. As he did so, there was a curious rending sound, as the lining-boards gave way, and then a low roar, as something like a ton of earth poured down into a tunnel, a little behind Sandy, cutting him off completely from John Vardon and the Parson.

John Vardon gasped, in an impenetrable smother of dust, and then backed rapidly, still carrying his grip-sack. His stern met the Parson’s head solidly, as he backed through the opening into the strong-room.

“What the de’il’s wrong?” whispered the Parson, somewhat warmly. “What the de’il—”

“The roof’s fallen in, Parson,” said John Vardon, husky with the dust, and the terror of the situation. “We’re trapped. It’s jail for us; just when I thought to win clear of all and start fresh. My goodness, Parson, we can’t clear the drift in the time we’ve got.”

“Well, laddie,” said Parson Guyles, with peculiar earnestness, and growing more Scottish, “I ha’ always had ma doots that good should come out o’ evil; but the A’michty works in His ain way; and maybe He’s but lessoning ye a bit mair, to show ye the hard and bitter path that is the lot o’ the evil doer. Let us away in, an’ see how the tunnel looks. The A’michty loveth a man that’s na ower ready to cry ‘Lord I’m beat!’ He’s a sight more patience wi’ the weak-minded than wi’ the weak-hearted. . . . I’m feared though, that yon Sandy will fall to the temptation o’ the opportunity, an’ to his lack o’ courage, an’ run off. An’ the diggin’-tools is a’ in the cellar, I’m thinkin’! Whist! Hark!”

The two men stood silent, John Vardon white and dust-smothered; but Parson Guyles calm, with bright, alert eyes.

“Here’s the manager, with one of the emergency keys,” one of the muffled-sounding voices was saying. “If the other two buck up, we shall have the door open in a few minutes.”

John Vardon quivered, and stared round the steel room, madly.

“Steady, my lad! Steady!” said Parson Guyles. “We are not beat yet. Never ha’ I, by the mercy of the A’michty, seen the inside o’ jail yet; and never will I, while the life goes in and out between ma breast banes. . . . To work, laddie!”

He thrust himself into the low mouth of the tunnel, and John Vardon followed, desperately. They came quickly to the place where the roof had collapsed, and the Parson threw himself at the loose bank of earth in which the tunnel vanished.

“Something to shovel with?” he said. “The tools are all in the cellar. . . . Ha! thanks be, I ha’ the notion. To the side, man, smartly, while I go by you.”

He crept quickly past the half stupefied engineer, and so into the strong-room. In a few seconds, he was back again, carrying something.

“Here ye are, laddie. Dig now, like man never dug, or ye’ll dig soon at Portland.”

He had brought two of the strong metal trays, in which the gold had been stored; and excellent makeshift shovels they proved. Vardon seized his, and, side by side, the two men worked like maniacs, sending the earth back between their knees in savage showers, and so filling the low drift with dust that they were almost blinded.

For some ten minutes, they worked; and then John Vardon gasped out:—

“Go back, Parson, a moment, and see if either of the other keys has come yet. I shall break up if I go on like this, feeling that they’ll open that door, and be on us any moment.”

The Parson merely grunted assent; he was too breathless, and too choked with the earth-dust, to speak. But if he were going to get the best out of Vardon, right to the last bitter moment, he must ease the nerve strain from him as much as possible.

He crept rapidly into the strong-room; and there, as he stood breathing heavily, he heard a confused chorus of greeting; and then one of the muffled-sounding voices say:—

“Thank goodness! There’s only the third key to come now.”

There was not a moment to lose, and the Parson dived head-foremost into the tunnel again.

“God forgie me!” he muttered, “but the laddie’ll drop work the instant, if I tell him the truth.”

He reached Vardon, through the blinding showers of earth which the engineer was heaving back between his knees. As he came alongside of him, he inadvertently gripped the man’s ankle, and Vardon whirled round on him, with a sick curse of fear.

“Whist, laddie! Whist!” said the Parson. “It is I. The second key’s no arrived yet; and they’ve had a telephone message, saying the third man can no come for twenty minutes mair!”

“Thank God! Thank God!” said John Vardon. “I can work now.” And work he did; and the Parson beside him. But Parson Guyles worked all the time with an ear cocked down the drift, knowing full well that any minute there might arrive the third key; for the minimum time that he had calculated out for the keys to arrive, was already reached. And then there would come the opening of the door, and they would be caught, literally like human rats.

The minutes passed, like eternities, and suddenly the Parson could bear it no longer.

“I’ll away back,” he muttered, with breathless huskiness, “an’ see if yon second key’s arrived yet.”

As he crept out into the clearer air of the strong-room, he heard one of the muffled voices say, in a tone of authority:—“We are all here, gentlemen. Produce each your emergency key, and insert in the electrical combination to the right of the dial, in the order that I tell you. . . .”

The third key had arrived, and the officials were at that very moment proceeding to unlock the door.

A desperate feeling took the Parson for an instant, across the chest and around the heart, and he stared with a sudden fierce intensity round about the room, to see whether he might not come upon some plan to win a little more delay. Abruptly, as he stared, he noticed the lines still stretched across the floor, and the ball of cord lying in the corner.

Like lightning, an idea came to him, and he dashed at the ball; then went at a silent run to where the vast door of the strong-room fitted solidly into its rebates. It had the maker’s name-plate screwed on solidly to the otherwise smooth inner side of the door, and the Parson pulled a small, beautiful turn-screw from his pocket, as he ran. He reached the door, and fitted the turn-screw into the notch of the heavy steel screw; then applied all his strength and skill, and the screw moved. In less than five, noiseless, intense seconds, the screw head was sticking out half an inch from the door. He took a swift turn with the cord round the head of the screw, and then round the metal, electric light switch-lever, which was screwed into the left wall, near to the edge of the shut door. As the Parson took the turn with the cord, he caught the final directions from the muffled voice:—

“Key 1 to the left; key 3 to the right; key 2 to the right. Withdraw Numbers 1 and 2 keys; reverse Number 3. That’s right. The door is unlocked. Pull it open.”

As the muffled voice gave the final direction; the Parson, sweating until he was almost blind in that horrible moment, yet kept his nerve; and his swift fingers took turn after turn of the thin strong cord, from the screw head to the switch; back and forth; back and forth.

“The door’s stuck,” came one of the voices. “Have we worked the combination right?”

“Yes,” answered the previous voice. “Pull a bit.”

“Praise be!” muttered the Parson, as he drew his sleeve across his forehead. That’ll hold a while; and they’ll keep guessing on the combination. Maybe, the A’michty has a mind to let us go this once mair.”

He tested the tightly strung bundle of cord, with a heavy pull; then, without a second look, he dived again into the drift.

“Look out, John!” he called, softly, as he approached. “It is I. We’re safe a bit mair. How goes it, laddie? How goes it?”

“We—we’ll do it yet, Parson,” said Vardon, between shovelfuls, gasping as he spoke.

“Whist!” said Parson Guyles, “Whist! What’s yon?”

Vardon stopped, and they both listened. . . . Someone was digging, on the other side of the piled up obstruction.

“It’s yon honest de’il, Sandy,” said the Parson. “Man, I do praise the A’michty for the goodness o’ that.”

“He’s close, Parson!” said the engineer, still gasping. “Close! Do you understand? Only a few feet . . . My God, another few minutes, and we’ll be away clear.”

They spoke not a word more; but dug fiercely together into the remaining mound of earth. As they threw the earth between their knees, they scrambled it backwards with their feet, in a very orgy of effort, so that it mounded up behind them, half-way to the roof of the tunnel.

Suddenly, from the strong-room, there came a single sharp sound, like a rope snapping. “It’s gone!” gasped out the Parson, and whirled round. “They’re into the room!”

In the same instant, John Vardon cried out, inarticulately, and Parson Guyles turned again swiftly, a thousand plans for action surging in him. He saw that a shovel, gripped by two grimy efficient hands, was stabbing through the earth that barred their escape. Sandy Mech had broken through!

From the direction of the strong-room, rose a loud incoherent outcry—a dozen men speaking at once. And then an instantaneous silence, and the flash of a bull’s-eye lamp, along the drift.

“They’re there, lads!” shouted a deep commanding voice. “After them! Follow me.”

Sandy Mech’s head and shoulders were half through from the cellar side now; and he saw their instant need.

“The roof, Parson!” he shouted. “Bring the roof down on ’em. Catch!”

He shot a short, heavy digging-spud, or flat ended bar, into the Parson’s hand. Then he made another swift sweep with his shovel.

“There’s room, John,” he said. “Come on! Come on! Get clear out o’ the Parson’s road.”

He literally hauled Vardon over the mound, by his head and shoulders, slithering him down on the cellar side, in a cloud of dust. Then back over the mound, to help the Parson; but the Parson needed no help. He was heaving mightily at the roof, with the spud. A big, bearded face had just loomed at him, over the mound that lay between him and the strong-room. And he had met it with all the weight of his body and fist. . . . The face had gone backwards, half-stunned; and he had attacked the roof ferociously again. Two other faces loomed, with lamps, and an automatic pistol was thrust at him.

The Parson gave a final heave; there was a roar of falling earth, and the reiterated explosion of a pistol, smothered. Then he was being hauled back by Sandy, half suffocated, over the mound on the cellar side. Between them and the strong-room, lay a barrier that would take, maybe, an hour to dig away.

“Sandy, lad,” were the Parson’s first words, as the three of them stood breathless and grimy in the cellar, “I owe ye apology for doubting ye. I told John, here, ye’d never ha’ power to resist the temptation o’ the moment. I ask pardon of ye, laddie. I’ll no forget how ye proved ye’rsel’ this night.”

“Aw!” said Sandy Mech, “I ain’t no tin god! I did think of it; but you an’ me’s been through some jobs together, Parson; an’ I’d a’ hated you to get copped. And I’d a’ had a job to shunt this stuff by me lonesome.”

“Now, we got to move smartly,” said Parson Guyles. “They’ll maybe stay diggin’ in the drift awhile; but they’ll sure have men into all these basements, inside ten minutes. Pick up the gold. I’ll take a bag and this sack o’ bonds and notes. I regret sair we’re leaving one in yonder. Now follow me. . . . Whist! Hear that now! Not a sound!”

A thunderous knocking rose from the entrance door.

“The police! They’re on our track a’ready!” whispered Parson Guyles.

“. . . his ’ands were all earthy!” they heard a heavy voice explaining excitedly. “I thought I’d keep an eye on ’im. . . . Nothing to be suspicious about then, or I’d ‘ave watched him closer. . . .”

“I was right!” whispered the Parson. “Yon fat policeman must ha’ noticed things; and he’s brought ’em right on our heels. Come on!”

As he spoke, there came a heavy blow on the door, that made the whole basement boom and echo.

“Quick, after me,” said the Parson. “That door’ll be doon in a minute.”

He went swiftly through the darkness towards the rear of the basement, and the two others followed, stumbling in the gloom, with the weight of precious metal each carried.

There came the click of a lock. Then, faintly, they could see the outline of an open doorway, with the loom of the night beyond.

“Smartly now!” said Parson Guyles. “Move quiet an’ noiseless as the de’il himsel. . . . Pause a wee, while I lock this door against them. . . . Hark to that!” as a crash resounded through the basement behind them. “They’re in!”

He closed the door, quietly, and locked it, methodically withdrawing and pocketing the key.

“This is no’ a proper way out, ye’ll understan’!” he whispered. “There’s no back entrances to this block; only this was a convenience that the last tenant of this basement arranged with the proprietor of the stable yard we’re in now; and where I gave John the hint to keep his car. Step quiet, laddies. This way. To the left. . . . Now right. Here we are. Put the bags in, smart. I bid yon Williams lad ha’ the lamps lit an’ a’ ready by two o’clock, an’ I’m glad he’s done as I told him. I explained that ma friend an’ I were away to Edinboro’ toon for the week end. . . . That you, Williams?” as a sleepy eyed yard-man appeared. “Here’s half-a-crown, my man. Open the gates, an’ let us away on oor holiday.”

“Thank’ee, Sir,” said the man. “I’ve had the lights lit this half hour.”

He shambled to the gates, and began slowly to open them; while Vardon got into the driver’s seat, and the Parson set the engine going.

“Throttle her, man,” he said. “Not a sound more than need be. . . . What’s yon man so long for!”

The man had the gates half open; but had apparently been spoken to by someone. As the car circled to approach the gates, the lamps showed something that sickened the three men in the car. Standing at the gate, questioning the man, whose replies sounded frightened and bewildered, were four big policemen, and the foremost one was the burly officer whose voice they had heard a few minutes earlier, explaining about the Parson’s hands.

Abruptly, as the light showed them, the four officers barred the way.

“Pardon me, gentlemen!” said the fat policeman, raising his bull’s-eye, “we shall not keep you a moment, if all is right; but— It’s him!” he ended in a shout. “Collar him! A good thing I thought to try round the back here! Shut the gates!”

The four men, in a clump, turned to do so. In that instant, the Parson stooped swiftly, and pulled a large paper bag from under the seat. He sprang upright, and dashed it at the heads of the policemen. It burst against one of their helmets, and the car’s head-lights shone on a grey cloud of dust that filled the air around the police. The men in the car gasped for breath, and began to sneeze violently; but the policemen, caught literally in the thick of the cloud of pungent dust, reeled and staggered in all directions, gasping and sneezing hopelessly; for the Parson had burst a great paper bag of snuff and pepper right among them.

The Parson leaped right out among the stupefied men, hitting right and left with his fists, and clearing a path for the car in half a dozen seconds. He seized the doors, and dashed them wide open.

“Through wi’ her, John!” he shouted, sneezing fiercely. “Through wi’ her!”

Vardon obeyed, and the car leapt through. The Parson sprang on the foot-board, as the car swung out into the road; and as he did so, there came a thunder of blows on a door somewhere up the yard.

“To the left, John!” gasped the Parson. “Let her go!”

Ten minutes later, at a reasonable speed, the car was traversing one of the bridges over the river. Here, where they could see no one was about, they stopped the car, and John Vardon jumped out. He slipped off the number-plates, and disclosed fresh ones underneath.

“A good notion that, John,” said Parson Guyles, as Vardon climbed back into his seat and re-started the car. “I flatter myself that notion o’ the snuff-mixture was good, too, laddies. I’ve tried that trick before; and it always comes off, and no one the worse for it, either. Also, I’m thinkin’ it’s as well I made ye both up sae careful, too. I wonder now how ye’re photos will turn out.”

“What?” asked both men.

“Why!” said the Parson. “Yon box o’ tricks we’ve just been emptyin’, had a deal o’ notions about it. Did ye not see yon flash, after the alarm rang? Well, I guess, laddies, that’s a photograph apparatus, that one, Jamie MacAllister (they’re a’ Scots men, ye notice) invented; and it’s to photograph any act o’ irregularity that may occur. Ye micht ca’ oor’s some, how irregular, maybe.” The two men laughed.

“The Lord forgie me,” said Parson Guyles, growing more and more Scottish; “but I feel that licht hearted, I must crack a joke on ma ain sins!”

“I’m that way, always, Parson, after a job,” said Sandy Mech, nodding in the darkness. “I don’t reckon much of conscience when you’ve got the oof safe away. That’s my way o’ lookin’ at it.”

But John Vardon said nothing.

X

It was a week later, and Parson Guyles and John Vardon were walking up and down the platform of a provincial railway station.

“John Vardon,” said the Parson, quietly, as the train steamed in, “I hold ye to ye’re given word.”

“I’ll keep it, Parson,” said Vardon, looking squarely at Parson Guyles. “You’re a fine man, Parson—”

“Na! Na ! Man! Oh dinna shame me mair! Dinna shame me mair!” cried out the Parson, in very distress. “God go with ye an’ guide ye.

“An’ God help me,” he muttered, as they turned, each his own way.