“‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I’m on my way to Moses Jenkins to get it mended.’
“He leered at me with horrible malice and cunning: ‘Wass no-a sle-ates off our chapel roof, Mr. Morgan.’
“I leered back at him: ‘D’ye think, Risiard, the Prince of the power of the air would unroof his own chapel?’ And he fled.”
“Too bad, too bad,” protested the Rector feebly; for he had laughed with the rest, though all unwillingly.
“Too bad for Richard Jones,” murmured David to me.
“Well, I am not so bad as Dr. Johnson, whatever,” retorted the Druid. “I was reading last week how Boswell found him throwing snails over his garden wall.”
“‘Sir,’ remonstrated Bozzy, ‘that is rather hard on your neighbour.’
“‘Sir,’ replied the Doctor, ‘I believe the dog is a Dissenter.’”
The Rector rose from his chair with marked disapproval. “Shall we go into the study?” he said. And we adjourned.