had seated himself behind it, facing west, in the post of dignity occupied in the Primitive Church by the bishop, with his legs under the table, and his elbows on it, commanding the best view attainable of everything that went on, or that would go on, in the church.
His example was followed at once. A rush of boys and men was made for the chancel; the railings fell before them, and they seized and appropriated the whole of the low seat that surrounded the sanctuary.
"I've the best place now, you lubbers," said the sweep. "I shall have them full in face, and see the blushes of the bride."
"They are a-coming! they are a-coming!" was repeated through the church. A boy peering out of the window that lighted the gallery had seen the approach of the procession from Red Hall over the wooden bridge.
In came the Reverend Mr. Rabbit, very hot and sneezy—he laboured under hay fever all the blooming time of the year. He got to the altar. The clerk dived into the box and rose to the surface with the register-book and the surplice.
"Where is the ink?"
"Here is a pen," said the clerk, producing one with nibs parted like the legs of the Colossus of Rhodes.
"But we shall want ink."
"There is a bottle somewhere in the box," said the clerk.
"Never mind if there ain't," observed one of the elders seated by the table; "there is the sweep here handy, and you have only to mix a bit of his smut with the tears of the bride."
"Shut that ugly trap of yours," said the chimney-cleaner.
"It may be ugly," retorted the humorist, "but it is clean."
"Here they are!" from the gallery.
"Make way!" shouted Mrs. De Witt, battering about her with her umbrella. "How are people to get married if you stuff up the door, as though caulking a leak?"
She drove her way in.
"Now, then," said she, "come on, Mistress Sharland.
