“Oh, my gosh, look behind ’ee, Mr. Timbury.  The bullocks is coming into the churchyard.”

Mr. Timbury loosed his hold on the two boys as he turned, and Cass Dale catching hold of Mark’s hand shouted: 

“Come on, run, or he’ll have us again.”

They were too quick for the old man’s wooden leg, and scrambling over the wall by the south porch of the church they were soon out of danger on the beach below.

“My gosh, I never heard him coming.  If I hadn’t have thought to sing out about the bullocks coming, he’d have laid that stick round us sure enough.  He don’t care where he hits anybody, old man Timbury don’t.  I belong to hear him tap-tapping along with his old wooden stump, but darn ’ee I never heard ’un coming this time.”

The old man was leaning over the churchyard wall, shaking his stick and abusing them with violent words.

“That’s fine language for a sexton,” commented Cass Dale.  “I’d be ashamed to swear like that, I would.  You wouldn’t hear my father swear like that.  My father’s a local preacher.”

“So’s mine,” said Mark.

“Is he?  Where to?”

“London.”

“A minister, is he?”

“No, he’s a priest.”

“Does he kiss the Pope’s toe?  My gosh, if the Pope asked me to kiss his toe, I’d soon tell him to kiss something else, I would.”

“My father doesn’t kiss the Pope’s toe,” said Mark.

“I reckon he does then,” Cass replied.  “Passon Trehawke don’t though.  Passon Trehawke’s some fine old chap.  My father said he’d lev me go church of a morning sometimes if I’d a mind.  My father belongs to come himself to the Harvest Home, but my granfa never came to church at all so long as he was alive.  ‘Time enough when I’m dead for that’ he used to say.  He was a big man down to the Chapel, my granfa was.  Mostly when he did preach the maids would start screeching, so I’ve heard tell.  But he were too old for preaching when I knawed ’un.”

“My grandfather is the priest here,” said Mark.

“There isn’t no priest to Nancepean.  Only Passon Trehawke.”

“My grandfather’s name is Trehawke.”

“Is it, by gosh?  Well, why for do ’ee call him a priest?  He isn’t a priest.”

“Yes, he is.”

“I say he isn’t then.  A parson isn’t a priest.  When I’m grown up I’m going to be a minister.  What are you going to be?”

Mark had for some time past intended to be a keeper at the Zoological Gardens, but after his adventure with the wild beast in the thicket and this encounter with the self-confident Cass Dale he decided that he would not be a keeper but a parson.  He informed Cass of his intention.

“Well, if you’re a parson and I’m a minister,” said Cass, “I’ll bet everyone comes to listen to me preaching and none of ’em don’t go to hear you.”

“I wouldn’t care if they didn’t,” Mark affirmed.

“You wouldn’t care if you had to preach to a parcel of empty chairs and benches?” exclaimed Cass.