"Does it agree wi' ye now, Mr. Helstone, to be riding out after rioters, of a wet night, at your age?"
"It always agrees with me to be doing my duty; and in this case my duty is a thorough pleasure. To hunt down vermin is a noble occupation, fit for an archbishop."
"Fit for ye, at ony rate. But where's t' curate? He's happen gone to visit some poor body in a sick gird, or he's happen hunting down vermin in another direction."
"He is doing garrison-duty at Hollow's Mill."
"You left him a sup o' wine, I hope, Bob" (turning to Mr. Moore), "to keep his courage up?"
He did not pause for an answer, but continued, quickly, still addressing Moore, who had thrown himself into an old-fashioned chair by the fireside—"Move it, Robert! Get up, my lad! That place is mine. Take the sofa, or three other chairs, if you will, but not this. It belangs to me, and nob'dy else."
"Why are you so particular to that chair, Mr. Yorke?" asked Moore, lazily vacating the place in obedience to orders.
"My father war afore me, and that's all t' answer I sall gie thee; and it's as good a reason as Mr. Helstone can give for the main feck o' his notions."
"Moore, are you ready to go?" inquired the rector.
"Nay; Robert's not ready, or rather, I'm not ready to part wi' him. He's an ill lad, and wants correcting."