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“A tipsy parson.”

“Who? Mr. Manlius?” was eagerly inquired.

“I didn’t say so. I call no names.”

“He was present, I know; and drank wine, I am told, like a fish.”

“I wasn’t aware before that fishes drank wine,” said the man gravely.

“It was Manlius, wasn’t it?” urged the other.

“I call no names,” was repeated. “All I said was, that we had a tipsy parson–and so we had. I’ll prove it before a jury of a thousand, if necessary.”

“It’s no more than I expected,” said the temperance man. “He’s a mere winebibber at best. He pretend to preach the gospel! I wonder he isn’t struck dead in the pulpit.”

The moment his informant had left him, Perkins started forth to communicate the astounding intelligence that Mr. Manlius had been drunk on the day before, at Mr. Reeside’s dinner-party. From lip to lip the scandal flew, with little less than electric quickness. It was all over the village by the next day. Some doubted, some denied, but the majority believed the story–it was so likely to be true.

This occurred near the close of the week, and Sunday arrived before the powers that be in the church were able to confer upon the subject, and cite the minister to appear and answer for himself on the scandalous charge of drunkenness. There was an unusual number of vacant pews during service, both morning and afternoon.

Monday came, and, early in the day, a committee of two deacons waited upon Mr. Manlius, and informed him of the report in circulation, and of their wish that he would appear before them on the next afternoon, to give an account of himself, as the church deemed the matter far too serious to be passed lightly over. The minister was evidently a good deal surprised and startled at this, but he neither denied the charge nor attempted any palliation, merely saying that he would attend, of course.

“It’s plain that he’s guilty,” said Deacon Jones to Deacon Todd, as they walked with sober faces away from the minister’s dwelling.

“Plain? Yes–it’s written in his face,” returned Deacon Todd. “So much for opposing temperance reforms and drinking wine. It’s a judgment upon him.”

“But what a scandal to our church!” said Deacon Jones.

“Yes–think of that. He must be suspended, and not restored until he signs the pledge.”

“I don’t believe he’ll ever do that.”

“Why not?”

“He says he would cut off his right hand first.”

“People are very fond of cutting off their right hand, you know. My word for it, this will do the business for him. He will be glad enough to get the matter hushed up so easily. I shall go for suspending him until he signs the pledge.”

“I don’t know but that I will go with you. If he signs the pledge, he’s safe.”

And so the two deacons settled the matter.

On the next day, in grave council assembled were all the deacons of the church, besides sundry individuals who had come as the minister’s friends or accusers. Perkins, who had put the report in circulation, was there, at the special request of one of the deacons, who had ascertained that he had as much, or a little more to say, in the matter, than any one.

Perkins was called upon, rather unexpectedly, to answer one or two questions, immediately on the opening of the meeting, but as he was a stanch temperance man, and cordially despised the minister, he was bold to reply.

“Mr. Perkins,” said the presiding deacon, “as far as we can learn, this scandalous charge originated with you: I will, therefore, ask you–did you say that the Rev. Mr. Manlius was drunk at Mr. Reeside’s dinner-party?”

“I did,” was the unhesitating answer.

“Were you present at Mr. Reeside’s?”

“No, sir.”

“Did you see Mr. Manlius coming from the house intoxicated?”

“No.”

“What evidence, then, have you of the truth of your charge? We have conversed this morning with several who were present, and all say that they observed nothing out of the way in Mr. Manlius, on the occasion of which you speak. This is a serious matter, and we should like to have your authority for a statement so injurious to the reputation of the minister and the cause of religion.”