“I hope you will, Moredock,” said the curate, taking out the cigar-case he had started at North’s recommendation, and carefully selecting a cigar before replacing it; “and I hope you will bitterly repent. If you had come to me and asked me I would have given you a bottle of wine, but for a trusted servant of the church to take advantage of his position and steal—”
“On’y borri’d it, sir.”
“I say steal, Moredock. It was a wicked theft,” said Salis sternly. “The wine kept here for sacramental purposes—”
“But it was only in the cupboard.”
“It was a wicked theft, sir.”
“And it’s poor sweet stuff; no more like the drop o’ port Squire Candlish give me than treacle and water’s like gin.”
“You’re a scoundrelly old reprobate, Moredock.”
“No, I arn’t, parson. I’m a good old sarvant o’ the church. Here have I been ill, as doctor ’ll tell you, and I was took bad in the church o’ Saturday, and you’d ha’ done the same, and took a drop o’ the wine.”
“And you’ve been taken bad Saturday after Saturday for months past, eh, sir?” said the curate sternly.
“Been out of order for a long bit, sir,” grumbled Moredock, shuffling from foot to foot like a scolded schoolboy.