It lay between him and the
Pope. The Pope was perhaps best in theory, but in practice the
Archbishop of Canterbury would do sufficiently well. If he could only
manage to sprinkle a pinch of salt, as it were, on the Archbishop's tail,
he might convert the whole Church of England to free thought by a _coup
de main_. There must be an amount of cogency which even an Archbishop--an
Archbishop whose perceptions had never been quickened by imprisonment for
assault--would not be able to withstand. When brought face to face with
the facts, as he, Ernest, could arrange them; his Grace would have no
resource but to admit them; being an honourable man he would at once
resign his Archbishopric, and Christianity would become extinct in
England within a few months' time. This, at any rate, was how things
ought to be. But all the time Ernest had no confidence in the
Archbishop's not hopping off just as the pinch was about to fall on him,
and this seemed so unfair that his blood boiled at the thought of it. If
this was to be so, he must try if he could not fix him by the judicious
use of bird-lime or a snare, or throw the salt on his tail from an
ambuscade.
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