Bowman guffawed, and his purple face swelled with merriment, for he had
been hearing a whispered story told by Bill Preston, an elderly retired
tradesman. Bill is a most respectable man whose daughters hold quite a
leading position in the society of our district. He is great on church
business, and he is the vicar's right-hand man. It is a noble sight to
see him on Sundays when he stalks down the aisle, nattily dressed in
black, and wearing a devotional air; but in our parlour his sole aim is
to tell the queerest stories in the greatest possible number, and his
collection--amassed by years of loving industry--is large and various.
He cannot hear the simplest speech without trying to extract some bawdy
significance from it, and when he has scored a thoroughly indecent
success, his clean, rosy, jolly face is lit up by a fascinating smile.
Ah! if ladies only heard these sober fathers of families when
conversational high jinks are in progress, they would be decidedly
enlightened.
When Bowman ended his guffaw he said, with admiration, "You naughty old
man! How dare you go for to corrupt my morals?" And Bill received the
tribute with modest gratification.
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