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Arbroath flushed a dark red, and his lips tightened over his teeth vindictively. "There's a zummat for tha thinkin' on, Pazon Arbroath!" said "Feathery" Joltram, suddenly rising from his chair and showing himself in all his great height and burly build. "Zummat for a zermon on owd Nick, when tha're wantin' to scare the zhoolboys o' Zundays!" Mr. Arbroath's countenance changed from red to pale.
And Tom o' the Gleam sprang lightly up from his chair, his black eyes sparkling with mingled defiance and laughter "And I did! Here! will you take another?" And he drew out and opened a handsome case full of the cigars in question. "Thank you!" and Arbroath's pallid lips trembled with rage. "I decline to share in stolen plunder!"
A hand, evidently accustomed to the outside management of the latch, lifted it, and Mr. Twitt entered, his rubicund face one broad smile. "'Afternoon, David! 'Afternoon, Mister! Wheer's Mis' Deane?" "She's resting a bit in her room," replied Helmsley. "Ah, well! You can tell 'er the news when she comes in. Mr. Arbroath's away for 'is life wi' old Nick in full chase arter 'im!
Arbroath's countenance was cold and hard and shiny, like porcelain, and her smile was precisely that of the immovable and ruthless-looking animal designed long ago by old-time potters and named "Cheshire." Her eyes were similar to the eyes of that malevolent china creature and when she spoke, her voice had the shrill tone which was but a few notes off the actual "me-iau" of an angry "Tom."
But that little paunchy Arbroath's worse than a whole flock o' magpies comin' together, an' 'e's actin' like a pestilence in keepin' decent folk away from their own Church. 'Owsomever, Twitt reads prayers every Sunday mornin', an' t'other day Mr. Reay came in an' 'eerd 'im. An' Mr.
Arbroath's reputation which had been so graphically related by Twitt, turned out to be true in every respect, and though considerable efforts were made to hush it up, the outraged feelings of the reverend gentleman's wife were not to be silenced. Proceedings for divorce were commenced, and it was understood that there would be no defence.
To look at Weircombe village as it lay peacefully aslant down the rocky "coombe," no one would have thought it likely to be a scene of silent, but none the less violent, internal feud; yet such nevertheless was the case, and all the trouble had arisen since the first Sunday of the first month of the Reverend Mr. Arbroath's "taking duty" in the parish.
Twitt, to quote Scriptural thanksgiving on all necessary occasions! E's a good little chap, our parson, but 'e's that weak on his chest an' ailing that 'e's goin' away this year to Madeira for rest and warm an' a blessid old Timp'rance raskill's coming to take dooty in 'is place. Ah! none of us Weircombe folk 'ill be very reg'lar church-goers while Mr. Arbroath's here."
His round jolly face beamed with merriment, and Angus Reay caught infection from his mirth and laughed heartily. "Twitt, you're an old rascal!" he exclaimed. "I really believe you enjoy showing up Mr. Arbroath's little weaknesses!" "Not I not I, Mister!" protested Twitt, his eyes twinkling. "I sez, be fair to all men!
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