Mitchell, who was engaged in an examination of his injured leg, looked up quickly.
“Well,” he muttered, in unwilling admiration, “you are a cool hand, I must say.”
“Cool!” exclaimed the vicar as pleasantly as ever; “one needs to be cool with acquaintances who invite one into a sitting-room furnished with a couple of bloodhounds and nothing else. Ugh!” he cried, as he suddenly noticed the condition of his hands, which were smeared with blood and foam, “what a mess those brutes have made me in!”
Ned laughed shortly, and continued to stare at him with the deepest interest.
“It looks very unsuitable now, that same mess, when you are all the parson again,” he said, drily. “But, curse me with book and with bell if I don’t think that a minute ago you looked as if you could stand the sight of blood as well as any soldier.”
“And why not?” asked Mr. Brander, who had this time wiped his hands, pulled down his cuffs, and almost recovered his usual exquisite appearance. “People seem to forget that we parsons were not born in the surplice, and that we have all been through the same training as other men from whom a little readiness with wrists and fists is expected at a matter of course.”
“That’s true, parson. But we’d always looked upon you as one of the meek ’uns. Now if it had been your brother——”
“Ah, poor Vernon! I think all the spirit has been badgered out of him.”
“Well, but, parson,” said Ned, still gazing at him with the same steady and curious stare, “I think you have spirit enough for two.”
Mr. Brander turned and met his look straight, eye to eye.