“Well, well, Rogers, Simmons shall have the job.”
“Thank ye, sir,” said the old man.
His wife, who could not see the thing quite from her husband’s point of view, was too honest to say anything; but she was none the less cordial to me. The daughter stood looking from one to the other with attentive face, which took everything, but revealed nothing.
I rose to go. As I reached the door, I remembered the tobacco in my pocket. I had not bought it for myself. I never could smoke. Nor do I conceive that smoking is essential to a clergyman in the country; though I have occasionally envied one of my brethren in London, who will sit down by the fire, and, lighting his pipe, at the same time please his host and subdue the bad smells of the place. And I never could hit his way of talking to his parishioners either. He could put them at their ease in a moment. I think he must have got the trick out of his pipe. But in reality, I seldom think about how I ought to talk to anybody I am with.
That I didn’t smoke myself was no reason why I should not help Old Rogers to smoke. So I pulled out the tobacco.
“You smoke, don’t you, Rogers?” I said.
“Well, sir, I can’t deny it. It’s not much I spend on baccay, anyhow. Is it, dame?
“No, that it bean’t,” answered his wife.
“You don’t think there’s any harm in smoking a pipe, sir?”
“Not the least,” I answered, with emphasis.