Before the auction the two did not meet, and they sat apart during the proceedings.  The village malcontent was in great form, making certain of success, and was delighted when the Vicar apparently gave up bidding as if beaten.  The rose was still in his button-hole, but before long the aunt’s limit was reached, and it had to be removed; he was however relieved to find that the patrons’ representative continued to bid.  His opponent was getting very fidgety as the price rose, hesitating for some moments every time the bidding was against him.  Just as the hammer was about to fall he would arrest it with, “Try ’im again,” but the stranger instantly capped his reluctant bid, always leaving him to consider a further advance in great discomfort.  At last in despair but quite certain that the Vicar at any rate was knocked out he gave up, exclaiming, “’E med ’ave it, ’e med ’ave it”; and the hammer fell.  All eyes were fixed upon the unknown bidder, and the auctioneer demanded “the name of the buyer”; very quietly came the announcement, “The Dean and Chapter of Christ Church.”  Horribly disgusted the malcontent fired a parting shot as he reached the door:  “If I’d a-knowed the pairson was a goin’ to ’ave it, I’d a made ’im pay a pretty penny more nor that.”

This Vicar was a very impressive reader, especially of dramatic stories from the Old Testament.  As he read the account of the discomfiture of the priests of Baal by the Prophet Elijah one could visualize the scene.  Elijah’s dripping sacrifice blazing to the skies, the priests of Baal, mutilated by their own knives and lancets, in vain imploring their god to send the fire to vindicate himself.  The heavens were black, and one could hear the rush of Ahab’s chariot, the roar of the thunder and the hissing torrent of rain, and see the prophet running swiftly before him.  The Vicar, however, was not an actor like a clergyman I was told of, who got so excited over Agag and his delicate approach to Samuel that he could not resist an illustration to intensify the action by taking a mincing step or two aside from the lectern.

No village is complete without its curmudgeon or self-appointed grumbler, just as every village has its special imbecile.  The curmudgeon originates in a class above the idiot; very often he is an ex-churchwarden, guardian, way-warden, or other official, who has resigned in dudgeon or been ousted from his post for some neglect or failure.  He is a man with whom the world has gone wrong, a sufferer, perhaps, from some disaster which has become an obsession.  He views everything with distorted eyesight; nothing pleases him, and he wants to put everybody right.  He cherishes a perpetual grievance against some individual or clique for a fancied slight, and goes about trying to stir up ill-feeling among the ignorant by malicious insinuations.  In former times he was an adept at “parson-baiting” at the annual Easter vestry meeting, when he would air his grievance against the Vicar of the parish or any person in authority.