‘“By no means,” I answered. “I want you.”
‘“He wants us! What do you think of that, Padda?” He pulled the seal’s whiskers till it threw back its head and roared, and he pretended to interpret. “No! Padda says he won’t be baptized yet awhile. He says you’ll stay to dinner and come fishing with me to-morrow, because you’re overworked and need a rest.”
‘“I wish you’d keep yon brute in its proper place,” I said, and Eddi, my chaplain, agreed.
‘“I do,” said Meon. “I keep him just next my heart. He can’t tell a lie, and he doesn’t know how to love any one except me. It ’ud be the same if I were dying on a mud-bank, wouldn’t it, Padda?”
‘“Augh! Augh!” said Padda, and put up his head to be scratched.
‘Then Meon began to tease Eddi: “Padda says, if Eddi saw his Archbishop dying on a mud*-bank Eddi would tuck up his gown and run. Padda knows Eddi can run too! Padda came into Wittering Church last Sunday—all wet—to hear the music, and Eddi ran out.”
‘My good Eddi rubbed his hands and his shins together, and flushed. "Padda is a child of the Devil, who is the father of lies!” he cried, and begged my pardon for having spoken. I forgave him.
‘“Yes. You are just about stupid enough for a musician,” said Meon. “But here he is. Sing a hymn to him, and see if he can stand it. You’ll find my small harp beside the fireplace.”
‘Eddi, who is really an excellent musician, played and sang for quite half an hour. Padda shuffled off his ox-hide, hunched himself on his flippers before him, and listened with his head thrown back. Yes—yess! A rather funny sight! Meon tried not to laugh, and asked Eddi if he were satisfied.
‘It takes some time to get an idea out of my good Eddi’s head. He looked at me.