I turned
the boat's head about, and started to pull back for the _Early and
Late_. The men laughed after me, jeering-like. And Dog Mitchell, he
laughed, too, in the wake o' them, with a kind of challenge as he saw
my lack o' pluck. And away back in Plymouth the bells kept on
ringing.
"That's the story. You asked how I could tell what the blessed Lord
felt like when Peter denied. I don't know. But I seemed to feel
like it, just that once."
THE MONT-BAZILLAC.
I have a sincere respect and liking for the Vicar of Gantick--"th'
old Parson Kendall," as we call him--but have somewhat avoided his
hospitality since Mrs. Kendall took up with the teetotal craze.
I say nothing against the lady's renouncing, an she choose, the light
dinner claret, the cider, the port (pale with long maturing in the
wood) which her table afforded of yore: nor do I believe that the
Vicar, excellent man, repines deeply--though I once caught the faint
sound of a sigh as we stood together and conned his cider-apple
trees, un-garnered, shedding their fruit at random in the long
grasses. For his glebe contains a lordly orchard, and it used to be
a treat to watch him, his greenish third-best coat stuck all over
with apple-pips and shreds of pomace, as he helped to work the press
at the great annual cider-making.
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