"Young man," said he to Willy, "thou givest short measure in every
other sack of the load. Thy uppermost stake is of right length; the
undermost falleth off, methinks.
"Master Ephraim, canst thou count syllables? I mean no offence. I
may have counted wrongfully myself, not being born nor educated for
an accountant."
At such order I did count; and truly the suspicion was as just as if
he had neither been a knight nor a sleeper.
"Sad stuff! sad stuff, indeed!" said Master Silas, "and smelling of
popery and wax-candles."
"Ay?" said Sir Thomas, "I must sift that."
"If praying for the dead is not popery," said Master Silas, "I know
not what the devil is. Let them pray for us; they may know whether
it will do us any good. We need not pray for them; we cannot tell
whether it will do them any. I call this sound divinity."
"Are our churchmen all agreed thereupon?" asked Sir Thomas.
"The wisest are," replied Master Silas.
"There are some lank rascals who will never agree upon anything but
upon doubting. I would not give ninepence for the best gown upon
the most thrifty of 'em; and their fingers are as stiff and hard
with their pedlary, knavish writing, as any bishop's are with chalk-
stones won honestly from the gout.
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