He looked more like a petty officer of dragoons than a minister of the Christian religion,--one of those exacting small military martinets accustomed to brow-beating and bullying every subordinate without reason or justice.
"So you're there, are you, Bush!" he continued, with a frowning glance levied in the direction of the always suspected but never proved poacher,--"I wonder you're not in jail by this time!" Bill Bush took up his pewter tankard, and affected to drain it to the last dregs, but made no reply.
"Is that Mr.Dubble!" pursued the clergyman, shading his eyes with one hand from the flickering light of the lamp, and feigning to be doubtful of the actual personality of the individual he questioned.

"Surely not! I should be very much surprised and very sorry to see Mr.Dubble here at such a late hour!" "Would ye now!" said Dubble.

"Wal, I'm allus glad to give ye both a sorrer an' a surprise together, Mr.Arbroath--darned if I aint!" "You must be keeping your good wife and daughter up waiting for you," proceeded Arbroath, his iron-grey eyebrows drawing together in an ugly line over the bridge of his nose.

"Late hours are a mistake, Dubble!" "So they be, so they be, Mr.Arbroath!" agreed Dubble.

"Ef I was oop till midnight naggin' away at my good wife an' darter as they nags away at me, I'd say my keepin' o' late 'ours was a dorned whoppin' mistake an' no doubt o't.