“Glad o’ that,” said the old man drily; “because a pitcher as goes too often to the well, doctor, gets broke at last.”
“What do you mean?”
“Naught, only we might be found out.”
“Nonsense!” said the doctor uneasily. “Nobody is likely to be about except any person should be ill, and I know exactly who is likely to want the doctor by night.”
“Ah, well, let’s be careful, doctor, for it would be awkward for both if we was to be found out.”
“Pish! Who would find us out, man?”
“Well, say parson.”
“Absurd! He is in bed, and sound asleep. There, take your glass; I want to begin.”
“Nay,” said the old man, looking at the rich liqueur North poured out for him, “I don’t think I’ll have no drop to-night.”
“Nonsense, man!” said North, holding out the glass, at which the old man gazed longingly. But he shook his head and thrust it away.