This much is sure--that among the knot of loungers at the church-gate
such sentences as the following passed from mouth to mouth--
"Es et true, do'ee think?"
"Certain--carr'ge an' pair from Five Lanes las' night--not a word
said."
"My!"
"Ef so, this town's been purtily robbed."
"That's a true word."
Then this happened--
The Trojan in broadcloth heard, as he passed, the words of the Trojan
in corduroy; inquired, shook his head, and walked on; doubted; turned
back to hear more; consulted his wife; and decided to go and see.
The consequence was that at ten minutes to eleven the stream of
church-goers descending along the Parade was met by another stream
rolling towards "The Bower" and every moment gathering volume.
As there was no place of worship in this direction, a conference
followed the confluence. The churchgoers turned, joined the larger
stream, and the whole flood poured uphill.
Outside "The Bower" they halted for a moment. One tradesman, a
furniture dealer, bolder than the rest, advanced to the front-door
and knocked.
The boy in buttons answered with a white face. In a moment the truth
was out.
This whisper among the crowd grew to a murmur, the murmur to a roar.
In vain the church-bell tolled out the single note that summons the
parson.
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