"Then I'll give you good ale. That won't hurt you. By St. Beorl who built this church, I must have a chat with you. For thirty years I have been buried here, and not once have I met with a student of my old college. This day shall be marked with a white stone. That is Horace, sir, but I won't give you the Latin of it, as my classics, like my manners, have become somewhat rusty."
Considerably diverted by the speech of this hospitable divine, Dan accepted the invitation, and they walked across to the vicarage. The door was wide open, and, followed by the dogs (who evidently had the right of entry), Jarner led his guest into a snug little room filled with old-fashioned furniture. There was a wide casement, in the depths of which was a parlour seat. The fireplace was large and old-fashioned, the shelves round the walls were filled with books in a more or less tattered condition, and there was a mahogany table ringed over with the bottoms of tumblers. Evidently that table had seen some hard drinking in the long winter nights. Over all there was a jovial air of untidy hospitality. Even before he spoke, Dan guessed that his new friend was unmarried. That parlour was eloquent of the absence of the female element at the vicarage.
"Bachelor Hall, sir," said the parson, casting hat and hunting-crop into a corner. "Sit in that chair by the window. It is the most comfortable, and is only permitted to be used by favoured guests."
"And why am I thus favoured?" replied Dan, dropping into a chair.
"Because you are a nursling of Magdalen, sir," thundered the divine, with a laugh on his jolly red face. "There is Alma Mater herself over the fireplace--the quadrangle, and the tower askew. Ah me!" continued he, shaking his head pensively at the picture, "what days those were thirty years ago! Where are all the good fellows with whom I consorted in the time when Plancus was consul, and still---- But here comes the ale, Dan! Let me froth you a tankard, and we'll drink to the old college, sir, and to our better acquaintance."
Not feeling equal to the task of emptying the silver pot presented to him, Dan bravely drank half, but Jarner did not set down his tankard till it was empty. Then he sighed, thumped himself with vigour, and nodded towards the mantelpiece.
"Try a churchwarden," said he, persuasively.
"Thank you, sir, I'll stick to my briar," answered Dan; and each having chosen his pipe, they smoked amicably together.
"Briars smoke sweet," observed the former, using his little finger as a stopper, "but to my mind they don't come up to a churchwarden. I always smoke churchwardens, for," he added, with a twinkle in his little eyes, "being a clergyman, it is but right that I should affect a pipe with a clerical name."
As in duty bound, Dan laughed at the old gentleman's joke, and then began to put cautious questions with a view to finding out all he could about Meg and her father. Jarner was very communicative, and replied frankly. The discovery that Dan was an Oxonian like himself warmed his heart towards the young fellow, and he did not regard him quite in the light of a stranger, though he knew nothing about him. Dan might have been an unconscionable scamp, and Jarner would not have seen through him. He was a simple, kindly old fellow, in spite of his strong ale and terriers and bluster. See, then, what freemasonry there is in Oxonianism. A coined word is necessary here, as no other can adequately describe the parson's attitude towards the tramp.