The Parson turned his meek eyes to the philosopher, and there was in them something so deprecating rather than reproachful, that Dr. Riccabocca turned away his face and refilled his pipe.  Dr. Riccabocca abhorred priests; but though Parson Dale was emphatically a parson, he seemed at that moment so little of what Dr. Riccabocca understood by a priest, that the Italian’s heart smote him for his irreverent jest on the cloth.  Luckily at this moment there was a diversion to that untoward commencement of conversation, in the appearance of no less a personage than the donkey himself—­I mean the donkey who ate the apple.

* * * * *

Chapter VI.

The Tinker was a stout swarthy fellow, jovial and musical withal, for he was singing a stave as he flourished his staff, and at the end of each refrain down came the staff on the quarters of the donkey.  The Tinker went behind and sung, the donkey went before and was thwacked.

“Yours is a droll country,” quoth Dr. Riccabocca; “in mine it is not the ass that walks first in the procession, who gets the blows.”

The Parson jumped from the stile, and, looking over the hedge that divided the field from the road-"Gently, gently,” said he; “the sound of the stick spoils the singing!  O Mr. Sprott, Mr. Sprott! a good man is merciful to his beast.”

The donkey seemed to recognize the voice of its friend, for it stopped short, pricked one ear wistfully, and looked up.

The Tinker touched his hat, and looked up too.  “Lord bless your reverence! he does not mind it, he likes it.  I would not hurt thee; would I, Neddy?”

The donkey shook his head and shivered; perhaps a fly had settled on the sore, which the chestnut leaves no longer protected.

“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him, Sprott,” said the Parson, more politely I fear than honestly—­for he had seen enough of that cross-grained thing called the human heart, even in the little world of a country parish, to know that it requires management, and coaxing, and flattering, to interfere successfully between a man and his own donkey—­“I am sure you did not mean to hurt him; but he has already got a sore on his shoulder as big as my hand, poor thing!”

“Lord love ’un! yes; that vas done a playing with the manger, the day I gave ’un oats!” said the Tinker.

Dr. Riccabocca adjusted his spectacles, and surveyed the ass.  The ass pricked up his other ear, and surveyed Dr. Riccabocca.  In that mutual survey of physical qualifications, each being regarded according to the average symmetry of its species, it may be doubted whether the advantage was on the side of the philosopher.

The Parson had a great notion of the wisdom of his friend, in all matters not immediately ecclesiastical.

“Say a good word for the donkey!” whispered he.

“Sir,” said the Doctor, addressing Mr. Sprott, with a respectful salutation, “there’s a great kettle at my house—­the Casino—­which wants soldering:  can you recommend me a tinker?”