They had reached the lich-gate and Dennis held Mr. Baskerville's pony while he mounted it.
"Thank you," said the elder.
"By the way, I've never called at Hawk House, because I've been told you wouldn't care about it."
"As to that, 'tisn't whether I'd care or not, 'tis whether you ought to call or not."
"You're right. Then come I shall. How about next Friday?"
"I shall be there."
"I hear you're a great reader, Mr. Baskerville. I might lend you some of my books—and gladly would do so, if you'd care to have them."
"Thank you, I'm sure. A kindly thought in you. 'Tis no great art to think kindly; but let the thought blossom out into a deed and it grows alive. Yes, I read a lot now since my son died. Jack Head is a reading man, likewise; but he reads terrible dangerous books. He lent me one and I burnt it. Yes, I burnt it, and told him so."
"Probably you were right."
"No, I wasn't. He showed me very clearly that I was wrong. You can't burn a book. A bad book once out in the world is like a stone once flung—it belongs to the devil. Not but what Jack Head says many things that can't be answered—worse luck."