"Stiddy there, stiddy, my hearts of oak," began Old Zeb, reflectively.
"A still tongue makes a wise head, and 'twill be time enough to talk o'
shal-lals when the weddin'-day's fixed. Now I've a better notion.
It will not be gain-said by any of 'ee that I've the power of logic in a
high degree--hey?"

"Trew, O king!"

"Surely, surely."

"The rarity that you be, crowder! Sorely we shall miss 'ee when you'm
gone."

"Very well, then," Old Zeb announced. "I'm goin' to be logical wi' that
chap. The very next time I see en, I'm goin' to step up to en an' say,
as betwixt man an' man, 'Look 'ee here,' I'll say, 'I've a lawful son.
You've a-took his name, an' you've a-stepped into his shoes, an'
therefore I've a right to spake'" (he pulled at his churchwarden),
"'to spake to 'ee'" (another pull) "'like a father.'" Here followed
several pulls in quick succession.

The pipe had gone out. So, still holding the attention of the room, he
reached out a hand towards the tongs. Prudy, anticipating his
necessity, caught them up, dived them into the blaze, and drawing out a
blazing end of stick, held it over the pipe while he sucked away.

During this pause a heavy step was heard in the passage. The door was
pushed open, and a tall man, in dripping cloak and muddy boots, stalked
into the room.