te
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. The dismay of the cheated town waxed to hot indignation.
Even Miss Limpenny, issuing from her front door, heard the news, and
returned in a stupor to watch matters from her bedroom window.
She had not missed a morning service for fourteen years.

Then as if by one impulse passion gave way to action. Like an
invading army the townspeople poured in at the gate, trampling the
turf and crushing the flower-beds. They forced the front door
(whence the page fled, to hide in the cellar), pushed into the hall,
swarmed into the drawing-room--upstairs--all over the house.

Only in the bedrooms were there signs of a hasty flight; but they
were enough. The strangers had decamped. There was a pause of
indecision, but for no long time.

"Sunday or no Sunday," screamed the choleric upholsterer, "every
stick of mine will I take off this morning!"

He tucked up his sleeves, and, flinging open the French window of the
drawing-room, caught up an arm-chair, and began to drag it out
towards the lawn.

A cheer followed. The Trojan blood was up.

It was the signal for a general sack. Flinging off his Sunday coat,
each deluded tradesman seized upon his property, or ransacked the
house until he found it. The ironmonger caught