“I wouldn’t care so much only—”
There was a pause here.
“Only that I have got my bag of tobacco here in my pocket, and it be quite wet through.”
After that, there was utter silence.
How two went a-fishing, and what they caught.
“You may argue, Brother Brisdone, till all is blue,” said Master Peasegood, “but I maintain that what I say is right. Now, look here; go back to the early days, and take your own apostle.”
“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone, smiling, as they walked down the lane, soon after sunrise, one bearing a basket the other a bag. The heavy dew lay upon leaf and strand, and sparkled in the brilliant sunshine; birds sang and flitted from bough to bough, scattering the heavy drops from off each spray; and, as the two clerics had come out of the cottage after an early breakfast, they had stood breathing the soft pure air, and smiled back at smiling Nature.
“My own apostle?” said Father Brisdone.
“Yes, Saint Peter; the rock upon which your church is built. Well, what was he—a fisherman?”