“Bad day for fishing, sir,” croaked the cheery voice which first informed me of his presence. “Ah, I knew it must be a stranger,” he cried as I turned and he hopped down to my side with the activity of a much younger man.
“Yes,” I said, “I only came down from London yesterday. I find the spot so delightful that I haven't bothered much about the sport. Still, I've had about enough of it now.” And I prepared to take my rod to pieces.
“Spot and sport!” laughed the old gentleman. “Didn't mean it for a pun, I hope? Never could endure puns! So you came down yesterday, young gentleman, did you? And where may you be staying?”
I described the position of my cottage without the slightest hesitation; for this parson did not scare me; except in appearance he had so little in common with his type as I knew it. He had, however, about the shrewdest pair of eyes that I have ever seen, and my answer only served to intensify their open scrutiny.
“How on earth did you come to hear of a God-forsaken place like this?” said he, making use, I thought, of a somewhat stronger expression than quite became his cloth.
“Squire Rattray told me of it,” said I.
“Ha! So you're a friend of his, are you?” And his eyes went through and through me like knitting-needles through a ball of wool.
“I could hardly call myself that,” said I. “But Mr. Rattray has been very kind to me.”
“Meet him in town?”
I said I had, but I said it with some coolness, for his tone had dropped into the confidential, and I disliked it as much as this string of questions from a stranger.