“But let me have no more complaints. You must do your duty, as I try to do mine.”
“Ay, parson, and I will,” said the old sexton, following his superior to the door leading out to the churchyard, where Salis stopped and took a box of vestas from his pocket, as he stood just outside the old stone doorway, where a stone corbel with a demoniacal expression of countenance seemed to be leering by his shoulder as if in enjoyment of what had taken place.
It was a sheltered corner for lighting a cigar, and the curate, without pausing to think, struck a match, and began to puff out the smoke.
“Well, I’ve no right to speak, as between parson and sax’on, sir; but twix’ old man and young man, I do say—what would you ha’ said to me if you’d ketched me having a pipe in the churchyard?”
“Why, you old rascal, I’ve often seen you smoking when you’ve been digging a grave.”
“Not often, parson; because one never hardly gets a grave to dig. I have had a pipe sometimes when my chesty has felt a bit weak.”
“I deserve your reproof, Moredock,” said the curate, putting out his cigar. “I have taken to smoking so much that I find myself lighting cigars at all times and seasons, and I am greatly to blame here.”
“Nay, nay, I shan’t say no more,” said the old man, calmly taking the place of reprover instead of being reproved; “but try a pipe, parson. Worth a dozen cigars. Stop a moment, sir, I wants another word with you.”
“Yes. What about?”
“My gran’child, Dally, parson. I arn’t saddersfied there.”