Badsworth Hall, a fine sixteenth-century pile, had, through the reckless racing and gambling propensities of the last heir, fallen into the hands of the Jews.  On the fortunate demise of the young gentleman who had brought it to this untimely end, it was put up for sale with all its contents.  And Sir Morton Pippitt,—­a rich colonial, whose forebears were entirely undistinguished, but who had made a large fortune by a bone-melting business, which converted the hoofs, horns and (considering that some years ago it had been a mere roofless ruin, and that the people had been compelled to walk or drive to Riversford in order to attend church at all on Sundays) Sir Morton thought was now very comfortable and satisfactory.  In fact, Sir Morton concluded, “Mr. Walden would be very ill-advised if he made any attempt to raise money for such a useless purpose as the ‘entire restoration’ of the church of St. Rest, and Mr. Walden might as well be at once made aware that Sir Morton himself would not give a penny towards it.”  To which somewhat rambling and heated epistle John Walden replied with civil stiffness as follows: 

“The Rev. John Walden presents his compliments to Sir Morton Pippitt, and in answer to his letter begs to say that he has no intention of raising any subscription to defray the cost of restoring the church, which in its present condition is totally unfit for Divine service.  Having secured the living, Mr. Walden will make the restoration the object of his own personal care, and will also be pleased to reimburse Sir Morton Pippitt for any outlay to which he may have been put in erecting the galvanised roof and other accessories for the immediate convenience of the parishioners who have, he understands, already expressed their sense of obligation to Sir Morton for kindly providing them with such temporary shelter from the changes of the weather as seemed to be humanely necessary.”

This calm epistle when received at Badsworth Hall, had the effect of a sudden stiff breeze on the surface of hitherto quiet waters.  Sir Morton Pippitt in a brand-new tweed suit surmounted by a very high, clean, stiff shirt-collar, was sitting at breakfast in what was formerly known as the ‘great Refectory,’ a memory of the days when Badsworth had been a large and important monastery, but which was now turned into a modern-antique dining-room,—­and as he read, with the aid of his gold-rimmed spectacles, the curt, chill, severely polite letter of the ‘new parson’ he flew into a sudden violent passion.

“Damn the fellow!” he spluttered, jumping up in haste and striking out an arm towards the very direction in which a mild young footman was just approaching him with a bottle of Worcester sauce on a tray,—­“Damn him!”

The footman staggered back in terror, and the Worcester sauce reeled over drunkenly on to the carpet.