He put back the pipe, and took from his scantily-furnished shelves a copy of his Majesty’s Counterblast against Tobacco, seated himself comfortably, and began to read.
Master Peasegood’s countenance was a study: for what he read did not seem to agree with him. He frowned, he pursed up his lips, he nodded, he shook his head; and at last, after half-an-hour’s study, he dashed the book down upon the floor, doubled his fist, and brought it heavily upon the table.
“If this book had not been written by our sovereign lord, James the First, by the Grace of God King of Great Britain, France, and Ireland, as it says in the dedication to my Bible—and what a thumping lie it is—I should say that it was the work of one of the silliest, most dunder-headed, and bumble-brained fools who ever walked God’s earth. Tchah, tchah, tchah, tchah. I don’t believe the pipe’s a little devil after all.
“Here! I must be off,” he said, with a sigh. “There’s work to be done. I’ll go see my poor old friend Cobbe, and try and comfort him in his trouble.
“Nay, I will not; it will be like running right into temptation. He’ll bring out pipes and ale.
“But he is in trouble sore, and I have not been of late. I must go—
“‘Into temptation.’
“Nay, it cannot be into temptation, for it is to do good works. The ale is not a devil of possession, after all.
“Mistress Hilberry, I’m going down to Jeremiah Cobbe, if any one should call.”
“All right, master,” she said; and the stout parson rolled out, and sauntered down to the cottage the founder occupied now.